


Mare Incognitum

by Ange_de_la_Mort



Series: Uncharted Territory [1]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: Ruby & Sapphire & Emerald | Pokemon Ruby Sapphire Emerald Versions
Genre: Alternate Versions of Canon Characters, Animal Abuse, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Character Death, Dubious Consent, Incest, M/M, OCs Fucking in the Distance, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Pirates, Pokemon - Freeform, Pokemon Battle, Swordfighting, That One Character Who is a Complete Monster, Time Travel, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-04-11 19:42:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4449725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ange_de_la_Mort/pseuds/Ange_de_la_Mort
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of Omega Ruby and the subsequent Delta Episode, Maxie - having to live with the knowledge that his misguided ambitions almost turned turned all of Hoenn to dust - clings to the scrambled remains of his self-worth by idealizing his family heritage, while Archie does his best to find out the truth about his own lineage. Due to unforseen circumstances, they stumble right into the shared history of their ancestors, only to realize that history is always written by the winning side, that old habits and prejudices are hard to get rid of, and that even three hundred years ago, super-ancient Pokémon have always been used to change and rule the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the halfway secret fic I have been working on for the last four months. That’s been a long time and it has been a frustrating time sometimes, but in the end, I am happy with it. I have fallen in love with the story and the characters and with being the one to bring all of it to life. I am just as happy that I am allowed to share it with you.
> 
> This story takes place in the ORAS universe, although you might, as time goes by, find yourself reading about characters from RSE and PokéSpe. This story also contains a lot of OCs, a whole world full of them. Don’t be afraid. Not all of them bite.
> 
> It should also be known that this story is, first and foremost, a hardenshipping fic. And it will always be one, even though it might not always feel like it, because there are many other things going on at the same time.
> 
> This story can also be read on [Tumblr](http://ariodat.tumblr.com/tagged/uncharted-territory) as well. Chapter artworks are done by [Meltingpenguins](http://meltingpenguins.tumblr.com/), beta-reading is done by the wonderful [Vauvenal](http://vauvenalscave.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Enjoy. And thank you for your time.
> 
> _________
> 
> [Chapter illustration](http://ariodat.tumblr.com/post/122982120411/uncharted-territory-book-one-mare-incognitum) by Meltingpenguins.  
> [Character Sheet of Molly](http://meltingpenguins.tumblr.com/post/124134134433/meltingpenguins-also-i-have-been-generally) by Meltingpenguins.  
> Fanart by bouncyenvos: [1](http://bouncyenvos.tumblr.com/post/123348695150) / [2](http://bouncyenvos.tumblr.com/post/124973066575)

He was trapped, imprisoned in darkness; the same darkness that had served him well on many occasions, that had saved his life often enough whenever he’d had to seek refuge in flight after a successful foray. To him – as a pirate – the darkness was a good acquaintance, a close friend, and a valued companion.

And most of all it was a damned _traitor_ , for just like it had always hidden him from the observant eyes of his foes and prey alike, this time, it had chosen the side of his enemies. They’d caught him with his pants down. In the most literal sense. They’d boarded his ship in the middle of the night, had surrounded his crew, had … well, they hadn’t exactly forced him to surrender, not with so many words at least. He’d still done it, if only to prevent the unnecessary bloodshed that would have been unavoidable otherwise.

And now – now he was trapped in here. In the Pyroar’s den, half naked – ‘half’, because they had at least let him put the pants back on –, with his hands chained behind his back (chains that faintly jangled whenever he moved, iron bonds that cut into his flesh, that didn’t budge a single inch, no matter how hard he tried) and the awful certainty that this could be the end for him. With a quiet sigh, he tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. His eyes had gotten used to the darkness – still, there was not much to see. The room was a sparse and empty one, nothing more than a tiny, dark cell. One that he knew. One he’d already sat in, all these years ago, when he’d been young and inexperienced. When he had not known just who he’d been dealing with – who he still was dealing with. When he had not known that this 'offer you couldn’t possibly refuse’ would ultimately result in this imprisonment.

And maybe, imprisonment was not the worst that could happen to him.

He was no hero. That much was clear. And there was nobody here in front of whom he’d have to pretend otherwise. He valued his life, feared death and was absolutely afraid of what might or might not come afterwards. Of course he knew the teachings about Arceus – the Creator –, but somehow the priests had always forgotten to clarify whether Arceus had only created life and death … or life, death and the afterlife. Frankly, he didn’t want to be the one to find an answer to this old, unresolved question. He had a family, one that he loved more than anything else in the world; a crew he had to take care of. And he was scared.

A key was being turned in the lock that held the door to his cell closed. The door itself opened with a creaking sound. The sudden glow of a torch illuminated his prison, so bright that it blinded him for a moment, forcing him to close his eyes and blink a multitude of times until he grew accustomed to the light. And then, when he could finally see again, he saw the man who held the torch in his long, bony fingers. The sole man he had never wanted to see again in his entire life.

Magnus Abernathy, chief magistrate – the only magistrate actually – of Mossdeep. Legislative, judiciary and executive alike. The man was jury, judge and executioner at once. Though, at a first and unobserving glance, one certainly didn’t believe this much power. He didn’t look it. Not if one didn’t already know better.

His gaunt figure was normally hidden underneath many layers of clothing, but today, now, he only wore a simple pair of pants, a waistcoat and a shirt, sleeves rolled up like someone ready to do hard and exhausting work. Or like someone who didn’t want to get his clothes dirty. The light of the torch cast shadows on his thin face with the high cheekbones.

In this uneven light, he thought he could see the madness dance in Magnus’ crimson eyes.

“Alistair,” Magnus said quietly. His name. One word, three syllables. Voice rough with longing and hatred alike. “You shouldn’t have run away from me. After all, a promising future was awaiting us.”

“Sure. One where you chain me to your desk like your other lapdogs.”

A smile crossed Magnus’ features as he leaned down a little to look him in the face. “Don’t be stupid. You possess no qualities that would be useful at my desk.”

 _Yeah, but I guess you’re already thinking of other places to chain me up._ Alistair kept quiet in order not to give him any ideas, forcing himself not to look away, not to flinch away in disgust as Magnus regarded him like a hungry Mightyena.

“I heard you died. Drowned. I should have known better. I should have known you wouldn’t die on me this easily.”

“You should have,” he said with a shrug, and then truly flinched, because those long, slender fingers touched him, grabbed his chin more tightly than one would assume when regarding Magnus’ build. Blunt nails dug into his flesh as Magnus tilted his head back, forcing him to look the man in the eyes.

“I should have known,” he said once more, roughly, voice a dangerous growl. “I’ve read the legends about your kin. The McNaughtons, descendants of the ocean gods.” Magnus’ thumb stroked over his cheek, an almost gentle touch. A mockery of one, for Magnus didn’t know what tenderness was. “The likes of you don’t drown. They _burn_.”

Alistair breathed in deeply, eyeing the torch Magnus still held in his other hand. He had to be careful. He knew the man wouldn’t hesitate to burn a hole into his body. … after all, he’d done it before. Ages ago. In a situation not so different from this one, a situation where he had been given an offer – one he 'couldn’t possibly refuse’. “As much as I’m always into having pleasant conversations with you -”

“We both now there is nothing intelligent going to come out of your mouth. Do yourself a favour and _be silent_.” His chin was released out of that iron grip, and Alistair swallowed hard, closing his eyes in relief for a moment, then watched Magnus inserting the torch into a bracket in the wall, watched him turning on his heels in one fluid motion. There was something on his belt, emitting a silverish gleam, something that Alistair could recognize as a dagger. As his own dagger.

The outrage about Magnus having stolen something from him – from _him_ of all people – and now parading around with the stolen goods vanished quickly as Alistair became aware of the fact that Magnus most likely didn’t simply want to show him the dagger. Most likely he’d want to use it. On him. Not a reassuring thought at all. Alistair stiffened and felt a cold, unpleasant shiver run down his spine that had nothing to do with the chilly air inside the cell, as Magnus leaned down to him and smiled, as he gifted Alistair with that charming, honest smile that made the world lie to his feet, that made all of them eat out of the palm of his hand.

All of them except for Alistair.

Because he knew better.

Because he knew the madness that was hidden behind that scrutinizing gaze.

“I often thought of you,” Magnus whispered. The smile on his lips vanished. Instead, there was a thoughtful look on his face as he regarded Alistair, as he looked his body up and down. “I thought of cutting open each of your scars to make them mine. I thought of scratching them open with my fingernails, of sinking my teeth in your flesh to make _you_ mine, and only mine.” The hand was back on his cheek, tender, loving, _enamoured_ , and Alistair had to swallow down the bile that rose in his throat at these words and touches. “I wonder if your wife has ever done something this intimate for you.”

“I didn’t know you wanted to be my wife that badly.”

It earned him a slap, one that threw his head to the side, one that stung badly, that burnt like fire. But that was fine. That was better than this sick and obsessive tenderness. Alistair took a deep breath – and flinched as he felt Magnus slide up closer to him, felt him slide onto his lap, pressed against his naked chest so that he could feel the heat of Magnus’ body against his own.

“You shouldn’t try to ridicule me,” he growled lowly, hot breath ghosting over Alistair’s skin, making him shiver uneasily. “I am not a man to jest about.”

“Yeah, you’re so humourless, I guess you don’t even know how to spell it.”  The words spilled over Alistair’s lips before he could prevent it, and he already anticipated another slap, but none came. Instead, Magnus slowly traced the long scar that started over his left eyebrow, that ran across the bridge of his nose and stopped underneath his right eye; instead Magnus – quietly and surprisingly worriedly – asked where he’d gotten it, and Alistair scoffed and rolled his eyes, because he knew that Magnus wasn’t really able to feel worry for anyone who wasn’t Magnus himself, and kept silent. Because it was none of his business, because he didn’t want to talk to him, because he refused to play whatever mad game this was supposed to be – this game where he was obviously expected to pretend that the stay in this dungeon was a nice one, a pleasant one.

Even though Magnus might be pretending that they were friends (old friends, sharing a history together and having a good, long laugh about their adventures), Alistair knew better. Knew that this was about something else, something more important than either or the both of them.

Unfortunately, he was right. Unfortunately, he couldn’t do anything, for as he saw the silver gleam of the dagger … it was already too late.

The shock came first, came crashing over him like icy water. It numbed his body, didn’t let him feel what exactly had happened. His eyes were wide, locked with Magnus’, with his crimson eyes and crimson gaze that never showed emotion, never joy and never kindness, and never – never mercy.

Then, he felt the warm fluid trickle down his face. The smell of copper hit his nose, a drop spilled over his lips and into his mouth, and with the knowledge that this was his very own blood, the pain finally found him; pain, agony that made him groan, that made him clench his teeth.

He screwed his eyes shut, struggling to retain his composure, struggling to show no weakness, not in front of him, and when he slowly opened his eyes again, Magnus’ facial expression had brightened. A content smile had found its way onto his lips, one that Alistair answered with baring his teeth in anger.

Which only made Magnus laugh. “Now that I have your complete attention,” he drawled, “we can talk about business. Where is it?”

“Where’s what?” Alistair gasped out, thoughts still clouded by the blinding pain. His breath came in short, erratic gasps, his lips were slightly opened, eyes fixated onto Magnus’ face, appalled by his deed – and by himself, because he had believed himself to be safe, had not taken Magnus seriously, for he knew that the man was still smitten with him even after all these years.

And now that Magnus slightly moved on his lap, thereby – maybe even unconsciously – grinding his hard dick against Alistair’s hip, now he knew that nothing had changed about this obsession. Only now Magnus didn’t go easy on him anymore.

Maybe, but just maybe, this had something to do with Alistair having accepted this 'offer’ all these years ago and then running away with Magnus’ belongings. Maybe this had made the man even more ruthless.

“Where,” Magnus murmured in his ear, “is the compass, which I had _asked_ you to retrieve for me? The one I had _paid_ you for?”

“Actually,” Alistair responded, knowing too well that being a smartass wasn’t a good idea, but unable to shut up even once in his life, “you’d only promised to pay me. You never delivered.” He shrugged his shoulders, which made the metal chains bite painfully into his wrists. “We both haven’t gotten what we wanted, so there wasn’t any loss for either of us.”

“Aha.” This was the only answer he got. A monotone sound, almost a sigh. And then, there were fingers on his neck, travelling over his throat (Alistair stiffened, expecting the worst, expecting these fingers to curl around his throat and choke the life out of him) and caressing his cheek.

And then – before he could react, before he could even expect it – blunt nails dug into the open, bleeding wound on his face. _Whitehot_ burning pain exploded in his head, in his mind, and Alistair screamed, screamed and flinched back, so sudden that he almost threw Magnus off his lap.

He was blind because of the pain, because of the blood dripping into his eyes, and as wet fingers caringly patted his cheek, he felt bile rise in his throat again. His cheeks burned with shame and hatred as he looked up at Magnus’ despicable face.

“I hope you know that this was all your fault.”

Alistair was silent, pressing his lips together to not scream at him, at this _bastard_ , this sadistic madman, this … “You won’t get it,” he gasped out. “You’ll never find it. It’s hidden forever. I’ve found out what it really is, and I’ll never let you have it.”

Slowly, Magnus raised one brow, then the other one. “Oh?”

“I’ve been to Sootopolis a few days ago.”

“Ah. Meeting the so-called witch, I assume. This explains a lot. Then do speak, Alistair,” he whispered in his ear, and the way that Alistair’s name came over his lips, so intimately, so besettingly like nothing else that Alistair had ever witnessed made the small hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up in horror. “Tell me about the scary stories you’ve heard about me.”

“You,” Alistair began after hesitating slightly. He licked his dry lips, for the memory made his throat grow tight, made his breath hitch because everything he’d heard had been so horrifying that he’d almost not believed it. “Inside the compass, there is a Pokémon living. One created by Arceus himself. One that could destroy the world. And you – you sick bastard – want to use it to rule over Hoenn.”

“And you truly believed her?” There was outrage in his voice, in his face, and a long, long moment Alistair really and actually doubted her words, but then a smile – a small one, an arrogant one – crept on Magnus’ lips, and he brushed these very lips against Alistair’s own in a mockery of a kiss. “Do you believe me to be this small-minded? Why should I be content to own Hoenn when I could have the _world_?”

Alistair growled and struggled against his bonds – without success – to do something, anything, to stop Magnus in his tracks, to not feel this absolutely helpless, but … it was to no avail.

“You cannot stop me.” Magnus regarded him from underneath his lashes and stroke his cheek without caring about his hand turning crimson with blood. “You cannot prevent it. You can only prevent your family be the first to die. You can prevent them sharing the same fate as your Vaporeon.”

Alistair’s mouth was dry. His heart grew tight, a cold fist of panic clenching around it. Molly. He hadn’t thought about her. Not since he’d been here. She had been with him when they’d captured him, had protected him, had bitten and scratched and fought as if it were their last day on earth. “What have you done to her?”

“What have _I_ done?” Those brows rose again and Magnus leaned close again, one hand on Alistair’s bare chest. “I have done nothing. Although I guess -” He lowered his voice. “My Houndoom is tearing the last scraps of flesh from her bones right now.”

It took a moment until the words sank in, but when they did, they tore him apart, hurt him more than any kind of torture ever could. Alistair felt his heart shatter into pieces, felt all hope leave him forever at the thought of his oldest, closest friend, at the thought of her mangled, beaten body being torn apart by sharp and merciless teeth. He did not cry, for he was too overwhelmed with sadness and the feeling of having lost, of being lost. He slumped forward bonelessly, against Magnus’ chest, felt him cradle his head in gentle hands – as if they were lovers, as if they shared all their sorrows and pain, as if it wasn’t Magnus who had robbed him of his most valued companion –, and couldn’t help but imagine his family being torn into shreds as well.

A whimper tumbled over his lips and he shivered in fear. And then, he told Magnus everything.

“Good,” Magnus said quietly. “What a good boy. You have done the right thing.” A chaste kiss was pressed to his temple, and Magnus slid off his lap, straightening his clothes. Alistair could see the blood had dried on his hands already, for it didn’t leave any stains on the fabric. “You will understand that I cannot let you live.”

No. Of course not. He’d figured that much. He knew too much. He was the only one who could stand in Magnus’ way, who could prevent his schemes. … he was going to die. Alistair closed his eyes in silence, completely defeated, resigned to his fate.

He heard the door being opened, footsteps approaching, and as he opened his eyes, he could see two of Magnus’ guards, his henchmen, open the chains that bound him to the wall – but not those that bound his hands together. They yanked him upright, forced him to stand on wobbly feet.

Magnus stood before him, his eyes hard and cold. “As much as it pains me to say, you will be sentenced to death to punish you for the crimes you have committed. But … before they lead you to the gallows, there is one more thing to do.” The dagger was back in his hand, and – with a quick gesture – he ordered his henchmen to hold Alistair’s head still, to hold it in an iron grip.

And then, Magnus slashed his face once more, relishing in his pained scream as he kept his promise to cut open the old scar on Alistair’s forehead.

“This is a reminder for you not to get in my way. One you will feel for the short rest of your sorry life. It is also a promise – an oath if you’d like. It says that none of my kin will put their trust in yours ever again.”

Another quick gesture, and Alistair – blinded by the blood in his eyes and the light of the afternoon sun – was taken away.

-

As they reached the marketplace, Alistair had to endure the sight of many, too many people. Of those he’d known for most of his life, of those who’d come to Mossdeep to trade goods or find a new home. He saw the children of Mossdeep with the scared and amazed look in their eyes, and he hoped his own children would never have to bear the sight of an execution in their lives. He didn’t see his crew, which was a relief, for when they weren’t there, they couldn’t get in danger. On the other hand, however, wondered why they had abandoned him. Had he not been loyal to them for all these years? Had he not treated them as friends and loved ones? Or … had they maybe already been taken prisoner by Magnus?

He turned his head just in time to see Magnus extend a hand and fist it in Alistair’s hair, shoving him closer to the gallows.

“People of Mossdeep!” he began, voice booming over the crowded place. “Today is the day that justice will be victorious. As you know me, you know that I do not condone piracy in the slightest. And here, today, we will see one of the most famous and feared pirates find his end.” Magnus leaned close to him and smiled. “You will die as a traitor,” he whispered in Alistair’s ear. “Not only have you betrayed me, but also your friends and offspring, for I will find them. And then, I will slay every single one of them.”

“No,” Alistair pleaded. “No, don’t!” But his voice didn’t reach anybody’s ear or heart, and nobody came to his rescue, for he was shoved to the noose and soon felt its bite around his neck.

Magnus said loudly: “The crimes committed by you, Alistair McNaughton, are innumerable. You have been accused of piracy, mutiny, treason, forgery, smuggling, arson in a naval dockyard, arson, sailing under false colours, blackmailing, kidnapping, horsetheft, burglary, impersonation of military commanders and officials, owling, poaching, fraud, false play and illegal gambling, perjury, pilfering, depravity and thievery, each of which is to be punished with death. Today, you will hereby justly be sentenced to death for them.”

The last time Magnus had listed off Alistair’s crimes, Alistair had laughed and cracked a joke. He didn’t feel like joking now.

“It is my duty as chief magistrate,” Magnus said loudly, fingers fisting once more into Alistair’s hair, nails digging into his scalp, “to ask you to repent for your sins. Do you, Alistair of Mossdeep? Do you _repent_?” His teeth were clenched tightly enough for Alistair to hear them gnash, as Magnus so obviously tried to hide a smile.

“I only repent that you aren’t hanging here next to me,” Alistair spat with as much hatred as he could muster, as much hatred as he felt in every fiber of his being.

Though he did not feel anything at all for much longer. For merely a second later, there was nothing more than a short drop – and a sudden stop.

And with the thought of his family in his dying mind and the sight of the afternoon sun grazing the surface of the ocean, Alistair McNaughton – loyal companion, faithful husband and loving father – was no more.

-

Since that day, centuries had passed. Humanity had grown, technology had evolved, and the bond between mankind and Pokémon had only become tighter.

And fate had decided that the weight of the world – this one and many others alike – should lie on the shoulders of two men, two born leaders who were so much alike and yet so different in their upbringing, their beliefs and the way their hearts reached out to those alongside them.


	2. Chapter 2

Maybe – no, probably – it hadn’t been a good idea to come here. Maybe – but only maybe – it would have been better to ignore it all. The people. The exhibition. His own history.

Still, here he was. It was a strange feeling, admittedly, to dare socialising again, after he’d spent the last few weeks in his self-imposed exile, after he’d not dared to set a foot outside his base, because the guilt had been crashing down on him the whole time, for every time he looked up at the blue sky he remembered the day of the drought, of the sunlight being so bright that he’d been just as blind as in the deepest darkness. They had managed – together with the child, the trainer who had saved them all – to keep his name out of the press, to hide who had been at fault for almost destroying the world, to not blame it all on his team, on those people who had trusted him with their lives. Those people he had let down, had betrayed, had … almost murdered. His intentions had been the best, but maybe – no, most likely – just having good intentions was not enough and would never be enough.

He felt watched, felt the hostile glares directed at him as he entered the Space Center in Mossdeep. Maybe – no, surely – this was not only some peoples’ reaction to who he was, but also to the day one of his admins had desolated parts of the Center.

But nothing of this mattered. He had a right to be here, a duty, almost. After all, the history of Mossdeep was also his own, in a way.

The exhibition was not exactly a large one, was only occupying a small part – merely a corner – of the large room, a corner where the other objects, the more important ones, those which actually had something to do with space, had simply been cleared away. He saw the model of a ship, a multitude of old and official documents, jewellery that was being displayed in transparent showcases.

And, of course, he saw the painting that was enthroned above all these objects.

He knew this painting. It had been in his grandfather’s possession for a long time, had been hanging in his grandfather’s living room, greeting him every time anew like an old and trusted friend, until his grandfather had died and the painting had been sold, given away without Maxie being asked at all (because his father had not wanted it, because he had always said that it was wrong to cling too firmly to the past, that one had to live in the here and now and not in the back then, and Maxie had hated him for it, had hated him until he’d understood what he had meant to say, until he had understood that life was about finding one’s own future instead of trying to emulate somebody else’s).

He knew the man on this painting, the man with the sharp features and the scrutinizing gaze that seemed to look nobly and wisely out of his framed prison and right into Maxie’s heart and soul. He was standing there, clad in dark reds, his trusty Pokémon at his side. Just like it ought to be.

Maxie paused in front of the painting and regarded it extensively, for a long while, feeling taken back to the times when he had been younger, digging through his family chronicle again and again in order to read the section about Magnus’ life. He had memorized it, still knew it by heart, knew the stories about the hero of Mossdeep, who had managed to turn the city into a prosperous commercial metropolis, who had ruled sternly and graciously alike. Often, very often, he had stood in front of this very picture and asked for support, for aid and advise, had often asked himself: _What would you do in my place?_ and _Why can’t I be more like you? Am I not a born leader as well? Am I not good enough to change the world?_

Maxie was not a believing man. Of course, he had heard the teachings of Arceus. Of course, his parents had exemplified its values, but to believe that a Pokémon had created the world … was nothing he could do. Nothing he could believe in, however strong this Pokémon might have been (however, he did believe in Pokémon having the power to _destroy_ the world, but only because he had witnessed this devastating power with his very own eyes).

He had always believed in himself, in what he could do, in how he could change the world for the better. And he had believed in him, in the man from the painting, whom he had always wanted to follow suit, whom he had always begged for support in his own, teenaged mind, whom he had always felt more connected to than to the rest of his family.

His fingers twitched. The urge to touch the canvas – to feel the paint under his fingertips, just like he had always done when he had been younger, when he wanted to feel safe and reassured in his decisions – was indescribable.

He had lost all belief in himself. Now, there was only -

“Wow, that guy gives me the creeps. No wonder you’re related.”

Maxie flinched at the voice disturbing his thoughts. At the voice he knew so well, as well as his own, at the voice he had once appreciated and loved so much. These days, however, this voice sounded to him like nails on a chalkboard, disruptive and deterring. “What do you want, Archie?”

“Check if you fell asleep while standing upright. You’ve been here for the last ten minutes or something like that.”

“What I do is none of your business!” he snarled, as Archie stood beside him. He threw him an angry glance, one that was answered with a grin.

Then, Archie looked at the painting, regarding it for a few moments. “Who is that? Your great-great-and-so-on-dad?”

“The Great Magnus.”

“Doesn’t look great to me. Doesn’t even look tall.”

“It’s not a man’s height that might change the world!”

“You should know, shouldn’t you?” Before Maxie could answer, Archie turned his face into his direction and gave him a smile. “So. Amuse me. What’s so great about that guy? You seem to be a big fan.”

“I … have been admiring him for a long time.”

“Must have been a stunner, then. What did he do?”

And so, Maxie told him. Told him about Magnus having turned Mossdeep into one of the most important cities in all of Hoenn, about having rebuilt it after the great fire. “This fire destroyed most of the documents, though. This must be why this exhibition is this laughably tiny. Not at all what he deserves.” When Archie kept silent and thoughtfully crossed his arms in front of his chest, Maxie lowered his voice and said hesitatingly: “He was the only one I could ever look up to.”

“Oh?” One raised brow. One tilt of his head. “Never heard that from you before. What about your parents? Your dad?”

“You will remember that my mother was a wonderful woman. And my father … ” Maxie gave a sigh and shrugged his shoulders, burying his hands in the pockets of his coat to feel the familiar and comforting shape of a Poké Ball, to close his fingers around it. “Don’t misunderstand me. My father has done great things in the war and later at Devon Corp. He had taught me to be humble and follow other peoples’ orders.”

“So all the things you couldn’t do if your life depended on it.”

He laughed. Silently. Bitterly. “You might phrase it like this. I knew – no, I hoped – that life had more in stock for me than for him. That I would grow to be a greater man than him. I knew there had to be more than following orders and working for other peoples’ goals. I wanted to be the one with the goals, with the ideas and the values, and - ” He paused, taking a deep breath. “I must sound ungrateful.”

“No,” Archie said quietly. “You sound like someone who knows what course he wants to adopt. Someone who knows where he comes from, and who he wants to be. I could almost be jealous.” Maxie’s questioning glance was answered with a shrug of these broad shoulders. “I know next to nothing about my family. I know that my parents lost a lot in the war and that they had to start all over again. I … ” He shook his head. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

No. No, that wasn’t true. There was something, something important. They both knew. Maxie stayed silent and thought about just how different they were. And how alike. They had both tried to change the world; Maxie, because he wanted to be like someone from his family’s history, and Archie, because he wanted to write history for himself. It truly was no wonder that they’d always been together – or opposed to each other. It was like some kind of fate drew them in, drew them together. Either as friends and as … as whatever they had been all these years ago or as sworn enemies or right now, during this strange truce where neither of them knew what to do now, what to do with their lives, how to go on after everything that had happened with them, through them and between them.

Now, they were both standing in front of a painting and looking at a man who had been everything and had had everything that they’d ever wanted.

“Archie,” Maxie finally started, “why are you here?”

“One of my ancestors is from Mossdeep. I thought I could find out a bit about him.”

“I’m afraid those documents won’t help you.”

“I’m not here for those. I’m here for this.” He pointed to the ship, to the scaled-down model, and now, Maxie actually looked at it, looked at the two masts with the large sails and artfully crafted figurehead that held the form of a Milotic. “This is the _Drowned Mary_. His ship.”

“Who is Mary and why did she drown?”

“Who knows?” Archie lowered his gaze onto the showcase that held the model, that protected it from curious children and their preying hands, and then, he put a hand onto the glass case, almost gently, lovingly, just like Maxie had wanted to lay a hand onto the canvas.

“I always wanted to have a ship like this one.”

“You have one.”

“It’s called a headquarter. And it’s not the same. Also, it’s been some kind of makeshift one, too, because I’d actually wanted to get a hold of the cove in Lilycove. Sadly, your ass was there first.”

Maxie blinked in confusion. “I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, because I never told you about it.” Archie looked at him, an amused glint in his eyes. “Gotta admit, I’d thought you’d build your base somewhere else. Like Mt. Chimney.”

“Mhh.” He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “The dry air isn’t good for my lungs.”

“Sure, but smoking like a chimney is no big deal.”

“I stopped, actually. Which is irrelevant to the topic at hand. I am not here to let you lecture me about my health. And you are not here for that, either.”

“No,” Archie agreed. “I wanted to see something that belonged to Alistair, and I have. It’s not much, but it was worth it.”

“Obvious- wait. Did you say Alistair?”

Archie raised his eyes from the showcase, raising one questioning brow as well once more. “Why?”

“I … If I am not mistaken, I remember him being mentioned in my family chronicle, but … ” _But you don’t want to know what has been written about him_ , he wanted to say, but then he saw the look that Archie gave him, so greedy, so hopeful, that the words failed him.

“Where is it? Show me!”

“Do you really believe I have hidden the book somewhere in my coat or why are you looking at me like this? I don’t have it with me, obviously. It’s at home.”

“Damn,” Archie grimaced and gave a sigh. “I don’t think I should prance through your hideout. Can you get it for me?”

“Who said anything about the hideout? I am talking about my home. About Mauville.”

-

He hadn’t been here for a long time, and he actually had not believed to ever return, back to Mauville, to the apartment that would always be not his, but his parent’s home to him, even though it legally was his, as he had inherited it from them. For a moment, he stood in front of the door motionlessly, believing to hear his mother’s laughter, the rich, happy sound that had accompanied him through his youth and adolescence. The thought made his throat grow tight (he only knew too well that, in the last years of her life, his mother had never laughed at all) and breathed in shakily as he rammed the key into the lock, opening the door with a violent push, fiercer than intended, to banish the thought from his mind. When he became aware of Archie’s gaze on him, he quickly mumbled: “The door is often stuck.” And then, as the stale, stuffy air hit their noses with a force that made them step back a little, he said: “I haven’t been here for a while.”

“You don’t say. I’d never have noticed.”

They quickly opened all of the windows as well the balcony door from which one could overview the small public green space in the middle of the city.

When the air no longer caused them any distress, Archie threw himself onto the large sofa in a corner of the room – and coughed loudly, for he was immediately buried under a cloud of dust. Maxie smiled despite himself as Archie brushed the dust off his hair and clothes. “How long haven’t you been here? Ten years?”

“Three, I think,” he said and shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe five. At most. I had a lot of work to do. Say, I can make some coffee for us. If the powder is still good. I wouldn’t advise you to take any milk with it, though.”

He quickly found out that even coffee had a date of expiry, for it tasted like ash and dirt, and with a sigh, he threw everything away and settled for two glasses of tap water. He had just filled them up and was taking them to the living room, as he saw the black screen of the TV flicker and brighten, for Archie had turned it on and was zapping through the programmes until he found the news.

“- the fissures in the sky sighted all over Hoenn,” the lanky news reporter in the suit that was too big for him was saying. “It is cautioned against drawing too close to them.”

“I wonder what these things are.”

“Hmm,” Maxie said, putting the glasses down onto the small sofa table. “They had first been sighted after Rayquaza had vanished.”

“Yes, but I wonder what they _are_.”

The images on the screen changed. Now, there was some kind of amateur video of a flock of Taillows flying directly into the fissure – and never emerging again. As if they had been swallowed by it.

Maxie narrowed his eyes. “They are nothing good, that much is obvious.” He took a sip of the water and stepped in front of the bookshelf next to the TV in order to draw out the thick, leather-bound book with the golden, embellished letters. Carefully, he blew the dust off the top and turned it in his hand, taking a look at the front, at the curved writing, those three words he had so often read. _Abernathy Family Chronicle_ was written there. A memento of his family, from the beginning to the end.

He had personally written down the life and achievements of his parents, just like his father had done when Maxie’s grandfather had died. As it was tradition. His hands shook a little as he thought of the tradition dying with him, of nobody being there to write Maxie’s own name down. It would be as if he’d never existed. Because he had never been able to become the great and honorable man he had wanted to be, the one whose life was not only written down in this book, but in every history book of the world. It would all end with him, as he had no loved ones, no family. As he was all by himself.

“Hey, are you all right?” Archie asked with maybe a hint of concern in his voice. “You’re shaking.”

Maxie quickly cleared his throat. “Nothing. It’s nothing, I … I’m fine.” He looked into Archie’s direction and then back at the book. “Promise me you won’t be disappointed,” he said quietly, which only made Archie laugh. But Maxie knew better, just like he knew a lot of things better. He found the page immediately, having read it so often. He had hoped he’d remembered the content wrongly, but … there it was. Written down for all eternity to see. He cleared his throat again and began to read out loud: “ _In the year of the Creator, seventeen hundred and so on, the catastrophe known as the Great Fire happened. It is rumored to be the direct result of the public execution of the known pirate Alistair McNaughton, whose crew had laid the fire to avenge their captain’s death._ Here is also a list of Alistair’s crimes, if you want to - ”

He looked up just in tome to see Archie pale. To see the horror in his eyes turn into shock, then into sadness. And finally, into pure and utter resignation.

“I am sorry,” Maxie said quietly. “I shouldn’t have told you.” At Archie’s forced and pained smile he felt guilt washing over him, drowning him until he couldn’t breathe. The last time that Archie had looked at him like this had been a long time ago. Still, even then, Maxie had just hurt him as much as today.

“It’s fine. Really. I’d hoped he’d been a good man. Guess I’d been wrong. Well,” he said and forced a laugh. “Some of us come from a family of noble men, and some … don’t have that luck.”

“I’m truly sorry, Archie,” Maxie said once more. He wanted to reach out for him, nudge his shoulder reassuringly. But he didn’t dare to.

“No. Don’t be. It’s good to know where one’s coming from.”

_And sometimes, it’s better not to know what kind of monster one has chosen as a role model_ , Maxie thought and averted his eyes, afraid that Archie might guess his thoughts.

“Well, it’s been nice seeing you again, Max, but -”

“And now, a special announcement,” the reporter’s voice blasted out of the TV, loudly, because Archie had accidentally dropped the remote. “The citizens of Slateport have again been witness to the strange weather phenomena that is claimed to resemble a ship hidden in the fog. Eyewitnesses have turned in this alleged picture highlighting the resemblance.” A picture appeared in the screen. One of an old, wrecked ship with two masts, large sails and the shattered remains of an artfully crafted figurehead.

The reporter said something else, but Maxie didn’t listen, didn’t register the words. The blood was rushing in his ears, his mouth was ajar due to the impossibility he saw. “Is that … ?”

“… a Milotic?” Archie finished the sentence just as shocked.

And then, they hurried out of the apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter Artwork](http://ariodat.tumblr.com/post/123918434786/uncharted-territory-book-one-mare-incognitum) by Meltingpenguins  
> [Full-sized painting of Magnus](http://meltingpenguins.tumblr.com/post/124004589088/the-full-sized-painting-of-magistrate-magnus) by Meltingpenguins  
> [NSFWish body study of Alistair](http://meltingpenguins.tumblr.com/post/126358933753/to-shorten-the-wait-till-the-next-chapter-of) by Meltingpenguins


	3. Chapter 3

„Just so you know,“ he said - no, yelled - ten minutes later when they had left Mauville behind and were now sitting in the backs of their Crobats, fingers curled up in the short fur in the hopes of not falling down and breaking every bone in their bodies (no, Maxie wasn’t afraid of heights, but he knew that there were certain things that should be taken seriously. Things that might kill him, for example. On the other hand, Groudon could have killed them all, and he hadn’t even wasted one thought on this possible outcome, had never even … no, those thoughts weren’t needed now, those thoughts of crippling anxiety, of _‘what ifs_ ’ and _'what now’_ ). The boisterous, cold wind was blowing in his face, making it hard to see, hard to speak and hear each other. It sneaked underneath his clothing, making him shiver. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

Archie shot him a glance. “So you don’t believe in ghost Pokémon, either?”

“What? What do those have to do with everything?”

“Well,” Archie drawled, “ghost Pokémon mostly show up at cemeteries.”

“No, _really_ , you don’t say. _This_ explains it all.” Maxie rolled his eyes and brushed a strand of hair out of his face, out of his eyes and tucked it behind his ear. “So what? Water Pokémon prefer wet habitats, but they aren’t any kind of ocean water trying to emulate a solid form. It is only natural that ghost Pokémon are drawn to cemeteries and places with many dead people or Pokémon, but there is no empirical proof of a ghost Pokémon being the direct result of the another Pokémon’s death.” He looked over to where Archie was and saw him grin. “What? What is so funny?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

Maxie fisted his fingers in his Crobat’s fur and looked at him skeptically and sullenly. Archie was making fun of _him_ , was grinning at _him_ , at something he had said. This shouldn’t be, this wasn’t supposed to be, shouldn’t be _allowed_ to be. “You are ridiculing me!” he spat, narrowing his eyes in anger.

“What?” Archie laughed at that, laughed out loud and shook his head. “Max, don’t say that, that’s rubbish. Not everyone who’s laughing in your company is doing so at your expense. Don’t be an idiot.”

“I’m not – ”

“Yes, you are. You are a paranoid little idiot who’s always searching for something to be offended by. And who wouldn’t even know what a joke was if it bit you in the ass.”

“You cannot image how annoying you can be.”

“See?” Archie grinned again and glanced at him, obviously pleased with himself. “There’s no shred of humour in your bony ass – or anywhere else in your body.” When Maxie kept silent and simply continued to glare daggers at him, Archie said calmingly: “Look, it’s nothing. Really. I was just thinking about how much you can sound like a scientist’s son when you start to ramble.”

“You may have the brain of a Tentacool, but even you must have understood after all these years that I’m not merely the son of one, but _also_ a scientist myself.”

“Sure, sure.” He shot him another look, one of playful arrogance this time. “Then, oh great scientist, explain to me in scientific terms why Gengar looks so much like Clefable.”

“A simple coincidence.”

“Which is the nicer way of saying that Mister 'I am such a great scientist’ has no clue at all.”

Maxie pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingertips and closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. “With what we know about Pokémon and their evolution, we can eliminate the possibility of both Pokémon being related in any form. Pokémon can be found in up to three different stages of evolution, not in six, which would be the case with Gengar and Clefable being one and the same.” Archie opened his mouth to protest, but Maxie quickly said: “ _No_ , Archie, six is impossible. And don’t tell me those can be divided into two times three.”

“Why not? Three when it’s alive and three hen it’s dead.”

“Then, pray tell, how do _you_ explain the visible difference between the first and second stages of evolution?”

“A simple coincidence.”

“You are ridiculing me again!”

The smile that Archie granted him was almost gentle, no signs of mockery or sarcasm. “I just like to watch and hear you talk shop. It makes you look less miserable and lost. Not like the way you were in the Space Center, but more like the Maxie I know and prefer.”

“I … ” As seldom as it was, sometimes even Maxie didn’t find the words to answer. Sometimes even he did not know how he could or should react. Sometimes – most often thanks to Archie – the emotions he had hidden so deep inside of him clawed their way back to the surface and onto his face, made him judgeable, easy to read, easy to be figured out. He usually locked everything inside his heart, the anger, the passion, the excitement, just like a good leader should do in order not to confuse his subordinates, in order to not discourage or encourage them when it wasn’t necessary. A good leader was able to master his emotions and not to let them master him. A good leader never – never ever – showed his uncertainty, never showed how miserable and defeated he felt.

Sadly, though, Maxie was not a good leader at all. Not anymore. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have seen Tabitha’s reasonable warning as an affront to his personality. Otherwise, he would never have behaved in this depressed, downhearted way that had scared Courtney away, had made her go out and fight on her own. Otherwise, he would never have hidden for these long weeks in his hideout, overwhelmed by his own inadequacies. Otherwise …

“You’re doing it again!”

“Hmm”, he simply said and lowered his gaze. Then, he said tightly. “We have arrived”, in order to distract Archie as well as himself from the question of what was wrong with him these days, of why was feeling so empty and defeated.

“Looks normal to me,” Archie said, pushing Maxie’s thoughts back into the here and now. Together, they searched the surface of the ocean, searched for something out of the ordinary, something that could explain the thick fog hat seemed to appear whenever the so-called ghost ship was approaching, but there was nothing. Nothing except for the sun glistening onto the water, except for the water Pokémon swimming around, leaving a splashy trail of sea foam behind, and the many, many swimmers – children and adults alike.

“We won’t find anything, because there are no ghosts. They don’t exist.”

“If you’re so sure about that, why did you come here, anyway?”

“Someone has to make sure you aren’t doing anything stupid for once.”

Archie scoffed and said something that Maxie couldn’t make out over the sounds of the wind and the sounds of his Crobat flapping its wings, and then adopted his course towards the port, landing on one of the piers.

Maxie landed next to him, petting his Crobat’s head once and letting it return to its Poké Ball. He watched Archie letting his on Crobat return as well, watched him stare out to the sea with a sad expression on his face, his hands balled to fists, his jaw tight. With a inaudible sigh, he observed Archie, observed all hope vanish from his gaze. Maxie could imagine how much he had hoped and dreamt of finding out even the littlest bit of information about the man who had been – until a few hours ago – nothing more than a mere construct of his mind, a legend, a fairy tale and nothing more.  Of course Maxie knew that the few pieces of information he had found out were not satisfying at all (after all, he had seen the look in Archie’s eyes as the illusion of the noble and just adventurer had collapsed; the look in Archie’s eyes that made his heart grow tight, that made him feel nauseous due to … pity? Guilt? Both?) and that he would have wanted to hear the truth from Alistair himself. A childish wish. One that would never come true. But an understandable one, nonetheless.

“Archie, I – ”

“Archie? Maxie!”

He flinched at the sound of this voice, hastily turned around, into the direction where it had come from, already expecting to be surrounded by policemen. His hand had slid into the pocket of his coat, closing around the Poké Ball with his trusted, loyal Camerupt, and he was ready to strike, ready to attack, and … and then, he sighed in relief as he recognized the two persons coming over to him and to Archie.

“Mum? Dad?”

Yes. Yes, mum and dad. Well, Archie’s mum and dad. Both of them were wonderful, buoyant people. Archie’s mother was tall, taller than her son and her husband, with wide hips and wide shoulders. Her black, wanton curls billowed over her shoulders and her dark eyes were bright with joy when she embraced her son tightly. Archie returned the hug just as fiercely, the smile on his lips a stark contrast to all those expressions in the last few hours – a smile so contagious that Maxie had to smile himself.

“Maxie,” she said and laughed, letting go of Archie. “We haven’t seen you in years. You’ve grown, haven’t you?”

He rolled his eyes at this old, bad joke, at this greeting that had almost become a habit in all these years. “I’m thirty-five, I haven’t grown in fifteen years,” he responded as he sidestepped her hug (just another habit, after all, the memory of almost being crushed between her breasts was still fresh in his mind) and shook her hand, the right one, the one with the many jewels on her fingers and the brightly painted nails. “Good to see you again, Mrs. McNaughton.”

She reciprocated the greeting and leaned down to him, and Maxie could see what lay beyond her smile, could see the worry and sobriety, as she whispered: “I’m glad you’re back together. Archie was so lonely without you. And we were _devastated_ when we heard you’d broken up.”

“Well, _actually_ ,” he began and couldn’t finish his sentence, because Archie’s father slammed a hand down on his shoulder so hard that felt weak in the knees.

“Good to see you again, boy,” he said with his vigorous voice and grinned, showing two gold teeth he hadn’t had the last time Maxie had seen him. “Good to see you two running around together. That means you guys have finally stopped this nonsense with the eco-terrorism.” He looked at him skeptically, then looked at Archie. “You _have_ , haven’t you?”

“We – ”

“Sure, dad! We’ve seen the light and stuff like that!”

“Good,” Archie’s father murmured under his breath. “Very good. Was about time. … say, boys, on the topic of light, have you seen the thing over Sootopolis? The beam of light, the drought and the heat wave? Could be felt even over here, wasn’t good at all for my old bones.” Maxie felt Archie’s gaze on him and stiffened; not only because Archie’s father asked them both if they had had anything to do with it, which – hahaha – what a _funny_ remark, of course not. Dark blue eyes stared into his soul (even though Archie’s father had always been a little cross-eyed, had always needed glasses, but had never gotten around to buying them, had always refused getting glasses. “I can still see the fish,” he’d always said, “and if I have to wrestle a Wailord - ” which Maxie could actually see him doing. “- and the glasses break, then I’ve wasted all that money. Or what if I lose them and they get swallowed by the ocean?”).

“I,” Maxie began, but obviously some kind of higher power didn’t want him to finish even one sentence on that day, for Archie’s mother linked arms with him and Archie and proclaimed happily that they shouldn’t talk about this so openly and that they should come in and grab some coffee and pastries.

“We actually wanted to – ”

“Coffee? Great idea, I didn’t have any, yet. Mum, did you know that Maxie managed to spoil his coffee?”

Archie winked at him, and Maxie glared right back, and Archie laughed, and it was … nice. It reminded him of the past, of the many times he had been to Archie’s home, in Archie’s room and bed. They’d often dared to sneak around in the attic and search through those old chests and cardboard boxes, looking for something that could accompany them on their shared journey, a lucky charm or a secret treasure map. He remembered that all they’d found was the news that his Numel was allergic to dust, sneezing all over them and almost burning down the house. He also remembered Archie’s warm hands on his cheeks, remembered his loving gaze, his lips, his …

He bit down on his lower lip and quickly suppressed the memories. These things didn’t exist anymore. These times were long gone. He knew there was no possibility to turn back time and try anew, knew that the past could not be changed. And still, he wondered if Archie sometimes thought of their shared past as well.

-

The small house hadn’t changed at all. There were flowers everywhere (good that none of them had any allergies), the front door was still hanging a little askew, not completely meeting the hinges (Archie’s father had always wanted to repair it, but he evidently had never found the time to do so), and there was this general atmosphere of happiness and love and safety. Archie’s mother ordered them to sit down at the kitchen table while she herself was scuttling around the room, making coffee and putting a plate with more pastries than anyone could ever eat in front of them. Archie’s father was standing at the open window, smoking a cigarette. “Now talk,” he said, “why are you here? Not only to pay us old folks a visit, right?”

“We saw the news about the ghost ship,” Maxie said, “and then – ”

He was interrupted by Archie’s father slamming his palm against the windowsill in anger.“ _Not you, too_! This stupid thing is nothing but an optical illusion! I can understand tourists falling for it, I can even understand them cruising along the coast and chasing away the fish, but _you two are supposed to be smart_!”

“Don’t be agitated, love.”

“I’m not agitated!” he said, agitatedly, and ignored the hand his wife had laid on his shoulder. “I am appalled! I thought you to be clever boys, too clever to fall for this! But then, you can’t be that smart, I guess. After all, you’re still running around in those hideous uniforms that scream 'Please catch me, I am a criminal’.”

Maxie grimaced. He was right. They were too noticeable, hadn’t thought of changing their clothes, had been rushing to Slateport in a hurry. “Since when is it here? This … optical illusion? When did you see it for the first time?”

Archie’s mother put down two cups of coffee in front of them. “Since the meteorite has been destroyed. Since the fissures in the sky have appeared,”

So this had to do something with Rayquaza as well. Maxie shot Archie a look, but Archie ignored him. “Dad,” he said instead, “this is no illusion. It’s the _Drowned Mary_ , Alistair’s ship. I’ve seen the model in Mossdeep, it looks exactly the same. It even has the Milotic as a figurehead.”

“Pah! Hundreds of ships had Milotics as figureheads! What else should they have chosen? A Feebas?”

“Dad … ”

“And one more thing,” Archie’s father rambled on, pointing his cigarette at them. “We don’t even know if that Alistair guy was even real or if he was some kind of metaphor. Take it from the rich and keep it for yourself, like that green-clad guy in the woods, what was his name again?”

“Alistair was real,” Maxie said quietly. “My ancestors have written about him.”

“Hmm. Well, who’d have thought. Still, I don’t believe that – ”

This time, it was Archie’s father who was being interrupted by something unexpected. Namely, by a cold, icy gust of wind blowing through the window and making the curtains waving in the breeze, Maxie shivered, saw that Archie didn’t feel any different, and there was a slight feeling of dread washing over him as the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood upright.

The house was shrouded in thick, dense fog, making it impossible to see out of the window, impossible to see one’s hand in front of one’s face.

“This is it,” Archie whispered. And then, a little louder. “This must be him.” There was no time to lose, nothing to wait for. Archie jolted upright and stormed out of the house – and Maxie followed.

They ran through the streets without letting the fog disturb or hinder them, without hesitation or caution. They knew the town well enough, knew the streets and alleys, knew where it was safe to go and where they should turn around and search another path in order not to run face-first into a wall.

Archie was already sprinting along the pier with long, heavy steps, and took a Poké Ball out of his belt bag, jumping on his Crobat’s back the very second it materialized. He disappeared in the fog.

Maxie … didn’t really hesitate, but he was a little more cautious. He plucked a Poké Ball off his belt as well – the middle one of those three on his belt, while the weight of the fourth one was heavy at his side, in his coat pocket, keeping him grounded, level-headed – and followed him.

The ship emerged from the mist like a wild animal, sudden and without warning and Maxie flinched by the sight of torn sails and holes in the side walls. The figurehead was destroyed, the paint coming off, turning the Milotic into a grotesque and gruesome monster. Maxie was reluctant to come closer, but Archie had already landed, which meant he did not exactly have another choice.

He felt solid wood under his boots and blinked in surprise. “This cannot be a ghost ship,” he said. “It is solid. Firm to the touch. Ghosts wouldn’t be.”

“A Gengar can be quite solid, too, when it kicks you in the ass.”

“Look, Archie, I don’t want to argue.”

“Yeah, sure, that’s a lie.”

He gave a sigh and shook his head. “All I’m saying is: Should anything ever happen to my Camerupt – which I don’t hope –, then I am very certain it won’t be 'reborn’ as a Ghastly.”

“Yes, but that’s because Ghastly belongs to Clefable’s line of evolution,” Archie murmured to himself, and, before Maxie could even groan about this, said: “Let’s split up. I’ll take a look at the captain’s cabin.”

“Fine. I’ll be below deck. We’ll meet in the middle.”

And so they did. Archie made his way to the captain’s cabin and Maxie went in the direction of the stairs. The smell of mouldy wood hit his nose and he gagged. Slowly, he ventured down into the unknown depths, testing each stair before resting his weight on it. Each stair except for one, it seemed, because he shifted his weight in a wrong way, the stair broke, and he cursed, flailing about in the faint hope of not losing his balance.

It didn’t work out.

He fell, tumbled down the remaining stairs, his head hitting a wooden wall. Pain shot up his spine and skull and he groaned out loud and closed his eyes for a few long moments until he didn’t feel dizzy anymore, until he didn’t feel like passing out or vomiting in pain. Carefully, slowly, he got up again – one hand braced at the wall, raising himself on one knee, then getting to his feet again – and touched the spot at his temple where his head had connected with the wood. He flinched at he pain and as he drew his hand back, he could see some faint drops of blood on his fingertips.

Maxie gave a sigh and hoped that Archie hadn’t heard him. He’d never live this down if Archie’d gotten wind of it.

He paused for a moment, waiting for any signs of Archie, waiting for him to come down, but he didn’t hear anything. No. Wait. That wasn’t true. He did hear something, but the sound wasn’t coming from above, but from deeper down, from where the cargo area should be. Was that … a voice?

Frowning, Maxie came closer, hiding in the shadows of the cargo, large chests and boxes and barrels. His eyes widened as he saw a figure standing there, someone who had his back turned to him.

It was a man, judging by the height, one with short dark hair and dark skin. His upper body was bared, and Maxie could see old long scars on his back, could see a tribal tattoo on his upper left arm just above his biceps. A man who was singing under his breath, singing in a language that Maxie didn’t know. But even though he did not recognize the words, he caught a glimpse of the melody, of the atmosphere of this song. Of the despair and dread and sadness that this man seemed to feel as his dark-skinned hands were being busy with some kind of rope. When Maxie came a little closer, he could see that the man was tying a noose.

He shuddered involuntarily, even though he did not know why. After all, he should be happy. Seeing this man here meant that he’d been right, that this was no ghost ship, that someone was here, a living, breathing human being. Archie would be devastated, of course, but maybe … maybe it would help him in the long run. … maybe. Most likely not. Maxie knew what it was like to be obsessed with the past and with someone he’d never be able to talk to, after all.

As he looked closer, he furrowed his brow in confusion. It was almost like … there was something on his neck, another scar or an old wound. That was … strange. He should go back and get Archie, for he was sure he wouldn’t be able to overpower this man alone should one of them choose to attack. Still, he felt like he couldn’t move an inch, felt as if his boots were glued to the floor.

And then, he watched in horror as the man put the rope, the make-shift noose around his neck, the song coming to a sudden stop.

“No,” Maxie whispered, as he became aware of what was going to happen. The man would hang himself. Here. In front of his very eyes. He had to … he had to act, had no time to get Archie. “Wait!” he yelled and stepped closer, extending a hand to him, ready to grab the rope if it was going to be necessary.

The man turned to look at him.

And Maxie screamed. No. He _wanted_ to scream, felt the scream building up in his throat, but all that came over his lips was an almost inaudible whimper.

The man looked like Archie – and still somehow different, older, wiser. There was blood all over his face, blood that was gushing out of a wound on his forehead, a cross-shaped wound that had been carved into his skin. And now he could see what the wound around his neck actually was, could recognize that it matched the texture of the rope.

This man had already been hanged.

This man was no man at all, but … “A ghost,” Maxie whispered, taking a small step back in horror.

“What are you doing here?” he – it? – growled, unsheathing a sword that was strapped to his belt, pointing it at Maxie’s face. “How dare you,” he began, a look of utter hatred on his face. A look that quickly turned into confusion. “No … no, you aren’t him.”

Maxie didn’t stay to ask who he was supposed to be. He turned on his heel and ran, taking two stairs at once, stumbling over his own feet and getting up again as quick as he could. He felt his heart pound in his chest, felt his world being turned upside down – _a ghost_ , a voice on his mind screamed, _a ghost, a ghost, a ghos_ t –, and he didn’t dare to look over his shoulder in the vast fear of seeing the thing follow him. He bumped into something and – this time – he really did scream, did flinch away, fought against an iron grip on his upper arms. “No! Get away from me!”

“Max? Max, calm down!”

“A-Archie?” He closed his eyes in relief and shuddered, slumped against the man, never this happy to see him.

“What’s going on? You look like you’ve seen a ghost and – Maxie, you’re bleeding!”

“It’s nothing. It’s fine. Just … let’s go. Let’s get off this thing.”

“Max, what is wrong? Tell me!”

No. No, he couldn’t. He couldn’t say it, couldn’t risk Archie going down there, going to the ghost with the sword and the noose and the _blood_ and … He raised his head to look at Archie – and felt another scream build up in his throat at the sight in front of them.

There was one of the fissures in the sky right in front of them, ready to swallow the ship and them as well.

“We have to get off this ship. _Now_!”

But it was too late.

There was a flash of light, blindingly bright, and he felt the floor under his feet collapse, felt himself falling, falling down, and screwed his eyes shut in fear, didn’t want to see what was waiting for him, what kinds of horror would await him.

In the end, the only horror was the feeling of the air being pressed out of his lungs as he landed face-first on the floor. Or rather, on something soft. He made a confused sound and shook his head to chase away the dizziness. It was dark around him, pitch black, nothing to see, nothing to hear but his own laboured breathing. “At least,” he whispered to himself, “I didn’t hurt myself.”

“Yeah, but that’s because you landed on top of me,” groaned Archie underneath him, and Maxie sighed, felt as happy as never before to hear his voice. They were alive. Both of them. But where were they? “Get off me, now!”

“Stay where you are!” a voice bellowed, and Maxie flinched. A lantern was ignited, and he saw one, two, three pair of feet in front of them. And as he looked up, he stared straight into the barrel of a gun.

Now, to be honest, Maxie had never actually seen a gun before. Not from this close up. He had known that some of the members of their old team had used guns to attack fleeing Pokémon, but those were stun guns, the bullets heavy tranquilizers, no real ammunition. This, however, this was a real gun. An old one, too, one that might have come right out of a historical novel. He dared to let his eyes travel a little higher, and they widened in surprise. “… Matt?” he asked in confusion.

The man in front of him did look a lot like Matt, indeed. Inasmuch that he was tall. Much too tall for a regular man. He shared most of Matt’s facial features and facial tattoos, blue paint on his face like war paint of those old folks getting ready for a severe and bloody battle. But he didn’t wear an Aqua uniform, didn’t have the Aqua insignia painted on his chest. Instead, he wore wide, striped pants and a sleeveless vest. And the gun. Always the gun.

He didn’t recognize the other two – one of them with another gun, the other one with a lantern in his hand that illuminated the space around them. Maxie was confused to find himself still in the cargo area of the ghost ship, although right now, everyone around him looked very much alive, although right now it didn’t smell of mould, and there were no holes in the wall, no chance to look outside to see if the fog was still there, if Slateport was still there.

“Tze,” the man said with a grim smile. “Never gonna learn my name, are you?” He titled his head to one side, sharing a short glance with the other men. “You,” he ordered, looking at the other man with a gun, “get the Captain. Now.”

The smaller man hurried away and up the stairs, and just moments later, there were heavy steps to be heard. Black, heavy boots could be seen as someone stepped down into the cargo area, a dark blue coat billowing around a tall, muscular frame.

Maxie gasped as he recognized the man, as he saw the one he’d seen in this very place before. This was the ghost, albeit no longer dead. This was … this might be …

“Well, well, who have we here?” he asked, deep voice rumbling as he leaned onto one of the barrels, regarding them coldly. A Vaporeon resided on his shoulder, looking at them just as threateningly. “Didn’t think you’d ever dare to come aboard my ship. Don’t know how you managed to sneak your sorry ass in here, but I promise you’ll regret – ” He trailed off and raised his brows, which also contorted the scar on his face, the one that ran diagonally from his left brow down to underneath his right eye. Then, he came closer and leaned down to him, to them both, extending a hand and fisting it in Maxie’s hair, pulling his head back – Maxie grit his teeth, swallowing down a sound of pain – and looking at him observantly. “No. You’re someone else. Same red hair, different eyes. And you … ” His eyes travelled over to Archie and his eyes widened in confusion.

“Should we throw them in the brig?” the man who was not Matt asked.

“Yes. Give them time to think. And me as well. We’ll see what we’ll do with them later.”

-

The brig was the ship’s very own prison, a tiny cell, just large enough for the both of them to fit into. Archie paced around as much as he could, walking from one end of the barred cell to the other one, while Maxie was sitting on the plank bed, head in hands, deep in thoughts. ’ _You aren’t him_.’ That was the second time this man – this man who might be Alistair – had said. Who was ’ _he_ ’? Why were they here? Did the fissure in the sky bring them to the past? That was … impossible, right?

“Did you see him?” Archie asked for the fifteenth time. “He looked a lot like me. Could it be …? Could _he_ be … ?”

“Alistair,” Maxie muttered. “Yes. As crazy as it sounds, I fear we have travelled back in time.”

“You fear? What’s there to fear? This is great!”

Maxie looked up at him and saw him grin like a child on his birthday. “No. It isn’t. Look around you, Archie, does this seem great to you? We’re _prisoners_. They might _kill_ us.”

“We’ll explain. He’ll understand.”

Maxie barked a laugh. “Understand? What? 'Oh hello, Mister Alistair, my name is Archie and I am your biggest fan as well as your descendant’? Have you lost your mind?”

“Stop imitating me like this!”

“Archie, we cannot tell him. We cannot tell anyone. If … if this is real and not some kind of dream, we cannot, we may not do anything that might change our time. Or we might accidentally prevent our birth or some other matters like these.”

“Max, you’ve seen to many bad movies.”

“No,” he said quietly. “I don’t watch these kind of movies. But I have seen this man.” Archie raised a brow, and Maxie went on: “I have seen him on the ship. He is … he is a monster.”

“Wait. You’ve seen my ancestor, the one I had wanted to meet the whole time, and you didn’t say a word?”

“I didn’t want you to go down there! He had a sword!”

Archie grabbed his shoulders tightly, shaking him, raising his voice in anger. “Didn’t you say you didn’t believe in ghosts? Didn’t you say they weren’t _solid_ or some shit? Fuck, Maxie, you would have let me walk away from there without ever telling me?”

“I … don’t you understand? He had a _sword_! _He pointed his sword at me_!”

“Just like I should point my fist at you!” Archie let go of him and slammed his fist against the wall, making Maxie flinch. “For Arceus’ sake, Maxie, what kind of asshole are you?”

“… what?” he asked, voice small and tight.

“I swear, if that had been your beloved _Magnus_ , you would have kissed my feet and begged me to let you say hi!”

He clenched his teeth. “Don’t say that about me.”

“Bet you would have sucked my cock for a chance to – ”

Maxie rose and grabbed the anchor necklace around Archie’s neck, pulling him down so that they were face-to-face. “Arkadios McNaughton, how _dare_ you say that to my face?”

“How dare _you_ try to prevent me from meeting the one person I wanted to meet?” Archie was yelling now, shoving him back. “Have you _looked_ at him? Does he _look_ like a fucked-up murderer to you?”

“Why don’t you go ask him? Find out if he rips out your guts and paints his Milotic with your blood?”

“Know what, that’s exactly what I’ll do! I will – ”

He trailed off and looked to the left, to where the door to the prison area was, looked at this door just mere moments before it was pushed open and someone stepped in.

The man who looked so much like Matt, but wasn’t, stepped into the room and came to stand in front of their cell, turning a small, silver key in the lock. “You,” he said gruffly, pointing at Archie. “Come. The Captain wants to see you.”

Archie nodded, and Maxie reached out to him to grab his hand, his wrist, to warn him again not to say too much, but it was too late. Archie simply looked at him in anger and disgust and, together with the man, left the room.

Left Maxie all alone.

And scared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter illustration](http://ariodat.tumblr.com/image/125210664086) by Meltingpenguins.  
> [Character Sheets of Alistair's crew](http://meltingpenguins.tumblr.com/post/134845296823/i-present-to-you-captain-alistair-mcnaughton-and) and of [Magnus' servants](http://meltingpenguins.tumblr.com/post/134484886148/lord-magnus-abernathy-and-entourage-from) by Meltingpenguins.  
> [Storyboard](http://bouncyenvos.tumblr.com/post/125392508520) by bouncyenvos.


	4. Chapter 4

Maxie was not a patient man. He’d never been one. Of course he knew that patience was essential for any kind of plan; as much for working it out as for realizing and performing it. He also knew that silence and tranquility could be something quite pleasant – a time, in which one could organize their thoughts, could recall any proceedings and events.

Just like right now. Now that he did not have to endure Archie’s unnerving, overexcited chatter anymore. Now that he had been left in this cell all by himself, at the mercy of unknown people with unknown agendas, overextended with the situation and – admittedly – frightened. Left alone in this semidarkness, because the only light in this room was provided by a bull’s eye on the opposite side of the ship – on the side without iron bars, as if to mock any prisoner with the only accessible way to freedom that was so close and yet so very far away. It was most likely done on purpose in order to demoralize the prisoners until they started to worry about what the future might have in store for them.

Just like he did.

With a quiet sigh, he tilted his head back, leaning against the wooden ship wall with his head and back. What had he told Archie? That they’d travelled backwards in time. This had been the most obvious conclusion, because in their own time – where they were at home, where he desperately wanted to be right now – the ship was destroyed, worn down. And Alistair was … He shivered at the thought of the man doomed to tie his own noose, doomed to hang himself, again and again and again. For more than three hundred years. Imprisoned like Maxie was right now, bound to this ship by invisible ropes, without company, without the rest of his crew, even without the Vaporeon that seemed to always be at his side (just like his own Numel had been until it had become too big and unhandy).

For a long, long moment, he actually considered pitying him, but then he remembered the hatred in his eyes, the sword, the hand in his hair - the merciless grip of a man who had been so close to cut his throat or order not-Matt to shoot him at point blank, and his stomach churned, throat growing tight in anger. He clutched the wooden plank bed hard enough for his knuckles to turn white, for his fingertips to hurt, and then, he forced himself to take a deep, deep breath. To think. Logically.

Time travel was the most obvious conclusion, yes, but it was not the most logical one. No human or other being could simply leave the time they had been born into. It simply wasn’t possible. Unless … He drummed his fingertips on the wood, taptaptapping in the rhythm of his heartbeat. Unless the fissures in the sky were cracks in the continuum of time and space. Then the flock of Taillows they’d seen on TV should be somewhere here as well (admittedly, the thought of a bunch of Taillows suddenly appearing over a foreign, unknown ocean, chirping at each other in confusion made a smile find its way to his lips).

Wasn’t this affirming to what Zinnia had said to Courtney in the Space Center (all those weeks ago, shortly after the disaster with Groudon had happened, shortly after Maxie had exiled himself from the world at large, shortly after he had noticed that this madness inside him had almost killed them all)? That there was another world, another reality not unlike their own? Was this what she had meant? A time that was not the same as their own, one that could be ages past or centuries in the future?

But that wasn’t right, either. She had spoken of another ‘world’, hadn’t she? Another world like theirs, just not as technically advanced. Did this mean that somewhere out there, there was another Maxie? One who had managed to change the world, who was no failure like he himself was? Or was there another Maxie, who had managed to destroy his world at large, just like he had almost done?

The thought made his head hurt, made him reel in pain at the try to understand it all, at the try to bring light to the darkness in his mind. Carefully, he brought a hand to his temple and flinched as he touched the bump that he had managed to receive on the ship – this very same one, but not the same one at the same time. And then he blinked with a frown as one new, logical thought broke through the mist of confusion: All of this wasn’t real. It was nothing more than a dream, a hallucination created by his injury. He must have lost consciousness after hitting his head. After all, he had only seen this so-called ghost after hurting himself.

Most likely, he was still lying on the staircase, waiting for Archie to stumble over his unconscious body, waiting for him to wake him up.

Still … everything felt so real. He could feel the wooden surface of the plank bed underneath his fingertips just as much as the ship wall that he was leaning his back against. It felt just as real as the force with which he had connected with Archie’s body when they fell onto the floor of the cargo area, as real and painful as the look in Archie’s eyes when he had left Maxie all alone.

Of course, it wasn’t the first time Archie had abandoned him. Not the first time they had a severe argument. Maxie remembered those days only too well, those days when they had still been members of Team Rocket, and then, when they had left to create something different, something that would actually help the world and that had nothing to do with stealing and hurting people and destroying the environment (and hadn’t _that_ turned out to be _such a good idea?_ ). He remembered their ideals and goals drifting further and further apart, remembered their friendship – and whatever else they had had – shattering into pieces. While his fingertips were still taptaptapping against the wooden surface, he couldn’t help but wonder if somewhere out there, there were a Maxie and an Archie who had not behaved like complete idiots, who had never gotten into one of these stupid, relationship-destroying arguments, who – maybe – were even leading a team together, coming closer to their dream of making the world a better place for themselves and everybody else.

Strange … normally, he was not this sentimental, was not the kind of person to look behind at his past actions, because – before all this – he had always been sure of doing the right thing, of doing the best he could in order to help himself and everybody and everything else, his cause, his lifelong dream, his own whole being. However, now that has here, being caught and imprisoned, all alone, worried for his physical and mental health, now he wondered if there hadn’t been many other routes he could have taken, actions he could have performed differently.

Maybe, he thought, maybe this strange dream that was the result from his head injury was some kind of mental comparison, some sort of allegory to his behaviour in these recent times, to the feelings of guilt he harboured deep inside his soul. Towards his team and towards Archie of all people. It would explain, at least, why, in this hallucination, he was all by himself, without a familiar face by his side, while Archie had not only some version of himself, but also some expy of Matt to guide him. After all, it would explain the appearance of this man, this Alistair – it had been Maxie who had promised Archie to tell him more about the man Archie so obviously admired, only to – in the end – deeply disappoint him. Now, Archie had received the chance to learn more, to see and know and experience, while Maxie … was stuck. It also would explain the location, because the memory of the model ship was still formed in his mind.

Yes. Yes, that must be it.

The sound of footsteps could be heard, and for a second Maxie actually believed Archie to have returned to get him out of this cell, but then he noticed them to sound too light, almost bouncy. Not like the heavy footsteps of a man. Slowly, he raised his gaze, and felt his estimations about this strange, involuntary dream he was dreaming to be confirmed at the sight of the woman who had appeared in front of him.

She was a little smaller than Maxie, with dark skin and dark hair. The latter was adorned by a multitude of feathers that seemed to be woven into the thick strands to create the illusion of blue streaks of hair. Her gaze was cheerful and bright, just like the smile she gave him as she leaned closer to the iron bars that held him captive. In spite of himself, he lowered his eyes towards the white shirt she wore, with the awfully, indecently low neckline (which reminded him of her Captain’s choice of clothing and could surely be no coincidence). He could see far too much of her cleavage that was covered with nothing but bits and pieces of this white fabric (Maxie really didn’t know if bras had been invented in this time period already, but as he suddenly caught an unwanted glance of her dark nipples, he desperately wished for her to start wearing one).

“Hello, gorgeous. The Captain wants to see you.”

“And what is holding him up to show a little decency and come here to tell me so by himself? Don’t imply he’s scared of me, I’d find that flattering, but it would cast a large shadow on my opinion of him.”

“Scared?” She shot him a warm, amused smile and then shook her head. “Darling, you think too highly of yourself. Seems to run in the family, doesn’t it? You’re … Maxie, right? ’s that short for something?”

“It might be,” he drawled and crossed his legs, regarding her skeptically. There seemed to be no danger in her words and posture, but she knew his name, and that was worrying enough. It must have been Archie who’d told her. Who hadn’t been able to keep his big mouth shut. Who maybe had not only revealed such trivialities as their names. Who might have been forced to spill all their secrets (even though all of this was nothing more than a dream, it was one that Maxie was stuck in, one that was real enough for now; and even in his dream, Maxie would stick to his principles of not collaborate with any kind of brutish or murderous pirates).

“Name’s Salacia. Nice to meet you, darling. And now get your ass up and hurry up a little, would you? Captain doesn’t like waiting,” she said in the same frivolous, friendly tone that she’d been sporting the whole time, but Maxie recognized the order in it, recognized the twitch in her fingers that lured his gaze – deliberately, most likely – to the two cutlasses she wore on her belt, before she retrieved a bunch of keys from the same place and unlocked the door. Her smile was wide, showing white teeth, as he slowly got up to his feet and as slowly advanced to the door (standing next to her, he noticed that she was actually about his height, even a little taller than him, which angered him for reasons he did not know himself. … maybe because it made him feel small and helpless in a situation that was more than he could handle). “Hurrying up looks a little different. Not used to following orders, are we?”

“I am used to giving them.”

“Ah, something else that runs in the family. Well, that’s gonna be interesting.”

Gently but firmly – one hand between his shoulder blades – she steered him towards the stairs, and he complied, making his way on deck (he’d been careful with those stairs even when they’d been brought to the cell, testing whether they were more solid than the ones at the ghost ship, had made sure not to trip over his own feet once more, and this time, he did so as well, making sure he wouldn’t lose his balance before putting his weight on the wooden steps). Every step brought him closer to the surface, to the metaphorical light at the end of the tunnel. However, he was very sure that there wouldn’t be any kind salvation waiting for him. Still, he gave a small sigh when he finally felt a gentle breeze ruffling his hair, when he smelled the fresh and salty air that stood in such a stark contrast to the stuffy air below deck.

The relief faded quickly, though, when he became of the presence of the multitude of pirates that surrounded him, of all those strangers that were glaring at him. Not including her – Salacia -, he counted at least thirty other faces, and he was sure those weren’t all of them. His gaze lingered on the one who wasn’t Matt, who stood tall and stoically behind the two men that surely had been the center of attention until Maxie had entered the scene: Archie and …

Maxie straightened his shoulders and raised his chin a little higher, an arrogant smirk crossing his features for a second, as he took his steps toward that bastard of a man to confront him as an equal.

Which, sadly, didn’t work out as well as he had wanted, for somebody stuck out a leg and tripped him up. He made a surprised sound and lost his balance (again, a tiny voice in the back of his mind whispered, and yes, yes, it felt a lot like that scenario that was to be blamed for all of this nonsense), this time not hitting his head, at least. His knees connected to the wooden floor with a thud and the pain jolted through his body, from his knees to his spine, and he grit his teeth together to not let anyone see the pain, the shock, to only let them be aware of the intense, burning rage he felt. In pain, however, he was. And shocked, however, he was as well, for now, right now, there was something he was made painfully, suddenly aware of; something he had paid no mind beforehand, something he had not considered yet: He shouldn’t be able to feel any kind of pain in a dream. He simply shouldn’t be. But … but this meant … It meant he had not imagined the painful grip in his hair. It meant this was no hallucination, no fleeting dream, but real. Reality.

… oh no.

This sudden realization made him feel dizzy, and he did not dare to get up for he feared his legs would fail him. He forced himself to take a deep, deep breath and balled his hands to fists, slowly looking up to the man who was so similar to Archie in so many regards. This time, his mind was not fogged by the surprise and fear of being held at gunpoint, this time, he managed to observe, to notice the details of their differences, to commit them to memory.

Alistair was a tall man, towering over Archie, surpassing him by at least three to five inches (which he could see now that they were standing next to each other, Archie with a worried look in his eyes, Alistair with an arrogant, content smile on his lips). They shared their dark skin and their thick, black hair, although Alistair’s was slightly longer, the beard a little thicker. On first glance, though, one could surely mix them up. If one didn’t know any better.

But Maxie did. He knew better. He knew, no, he had believed to know the man he had called his friend for all those years. Now he was not so sure anymore.

For a second, his gaze was drawn to the white, open-collared shirt that Alistair was wearing, to the dark skin and visible muscles. Those, however, were not what had awakened his curiosity. No, his eyes were glued to a bit of scarred, burned flesh that could be seen just below Alistair’s collarbone, and he wondered what had happened, wondered how a pirate – whose natural habitat was the sea, wasn’t it? – came to acquire a burn scar. He would never ask, though. Would never show this much curiosity about this man. Not in front of him, at least. Maxie ignored sword and gun as much as he could (why did they all have weapons, why was this even necessary? No, that was a stupid thought. He knew why this was necessary, he knew those were different, dangerous times, but why – for the love of everything that was holy – did there have to be so many weapons in such a close proximity to his person?) and instead looked Alistair in the eyes (and saw another difference between him and Archie, the most unsettling one at that, for Archie’s eyes were as blue as the sea on a sunny day, while Alistair’s reminded him of the calm before a storm, of the surface of the sea that mirrored the cloudy sky, a strange combination of green and grey.)

Maxie took a deep breath, aware of the waiting, mistrusting eyes on him. Then, he said: “Are you really that desperate to have strangers kneel in front of you?”

Alistair laughed, a low sound, a deep rumble. “Not all strangers. Only those from your family.” While Maxie scoffed, getting back to his feet, Alistair patted Archie’s shoulder and said: “I know. Who you are. Who you both are. Archie told me everything.”

“Of course he did.” Maxie rolled his eyes and shot an angry look in the direction of a certain idiot, who had felt the need to ignore his well-meant advice (obviously, one of them was worried for their safety, and the other one was a simple-minded fanboy). To his satisfaction, Archie flinched, looking halfway apologetic.

“And I intend to believe him. After all, the good looks have to come from me, that much is obvious.”

“That much is debatable.”

“Whatever. It’s not up for debate, though, that you haven’t had that much luck with your bloodline. Or with the looks. Runs in the family, I guess.” There was laughter from somewhere to Maxie’s right, and Maxie narrowed his eyes, lips turning into a thin line. “So you’re Maxie, right?”

“It’s the Great Maxie for you,” he snarled and stepped closer, aware of the sound of one, two, maybe half a dozen blades being unsheathed. Maxie stopped in his tracks, already believing – fearing – his life to end now, for if the man in front of him should believe him to be danger and should say so out loud, he wouldn’t have any chance to think about their stupid, stupid time travel any further. He wouldn’t have the head to think about it anymore. Maxie swallowed hard, gritting his teeth.

But Alistair simply laughed – at him, and Maxie had to admit he wasn’t sure if being ridiculed was better than being threatened and killed or not –, putting his hands to his hips. “You don’t look so great to me. Don’t even look tall.”

“I’ve heard that one before.”

“Should make you think, shouldn’t it?”

It made a smile crawl onto his lips, one that hid the anger under a layer of feigned indifference. “No. It is, in fact, the other way around. It should make you think. After all, it is always a pleasure to male small minds aware of how they underestimated me. You will see my greatness like many before you have.” And wasn’t that the truth? Hadn’t he shown them all what he could do – what he could create and establish? What he could … destroy …   
Unbidden images flooded his mind, memories of fear and terror, of an uprising panic and the unrelenting brightness of the sun. For the blink of an eye, he felt the heat of the drought once more, felt his clothing cling to his body, covered in sweat and dirt, felt his throat go dry. Hadn’t they all seen how he’d almost brought disaster upon them all?  
His hands were shaking and he took a deep breath, trying not to let anyone guess his thoughts, not to let them see his uncertainty, even though he saw the confusion in Alistair’s eyes and the worry in Archie’s gaze. “You will see,” he said again, quieter this time, for his voice could be shaking.

For a moment, it was silent between them. The kind of heavy, uneasy silence that the pirates around them became aware of as well, even though some of them still held their sabres high, ready to charge if prompted. Then, Alistair lifted one hand off his hip, scratching his bearded cheek and making a small gesture, calming and commanding alike as if he was giving orders to a horde of wild animals – and the sabres were lowered. “Archie already told me that you be a stubborn and annoying bastard. So far, I’ve only seen the annoying part. I wonder if there’s anything else to you.”

“If you are trying to scare me, you will be disappointed. I am not scared of you at all.”

“No, You aren’t. I just don’t know yet if that’s courage or stupidity.” Alistair regarded him a little longer, then shrugged his shoulders and brought his hands together once, the clapping sound tearing through the silence. “Salacia!”

The small crowd that had formed around the two of them – the tree of them if one were to count Archie despite his current state of meaninglessness – immediately parted and and she, the woman Maxie had met just minutes ago, rushed to her captain, lips parted in a smile, and amused look in her eyes. “Oh Captain, my Captain?” she asked and there were a quiet chuckle from somewhere to their right that made Maxie wonder what kind of inside joke he was missing.

“Tell the helmsman that we’re changing our course. I’m not gonna show up in Sootopolis with those two hot on my trail. Andja would cut off my head.”

“She might. After all, the old witch collects those.” She tilted her head to the side. “So, where’re we going?”

“We set sails to Mossdeep.”

“Moss- Captain, with all due respect, do you really think that’s a good idea? Good old Magnus is surely waiting for you to set a foot in his territory.”

Magnus … Maxie’s mood brightened. That had to be _him_ , the one Alistair – the living one as well as the ghost one – had been talking about. Dammit, he should have known. He should have thought about it earlier. But then, he had been scared out of his mind, which surely had affected his ability to think. He could feel his heart beating faster at the thought of possibly meeting the man he had adored – worshipped – all his life. But this wasn’t what they had to do, wasn’t their priority. They had to get home again. And that was the only thing that mattered.

“I have a bet to win and some matters to attend with Stone. I’m not letting anyone stop me. Least of all that asshole.” Maxie gritted his teeth, but he had no time to complain about Alistair’s choice of words, for the man turned around, pointing his index finger at him. “You! And you!” That was directed at Archie. “You’re useless to us like this. Drawing too much attention. With those clothes everyone in Mossdeep would stare at you as if you were a twin-headed Persian. Below deck with you and out of these stupid gear! I’m sure we got something less _flashy_ for you.”

Maxie took a deep breath, breathing in and out, and then he said – calmly, but determinedly and loudly enough to make sure he would be heard: “No.”

He saw the warning an Archie’s gaze, saw Alistair’s expression change, saw all of the kindness and friendliness disappear until there was nothing left but a content and devious smile. “Did I hear that right? _His Lordship_ is denying my polite request?”

He was an idiot, he knew as much himself. He was unarmed – and had actually no clue about weapons at all, so even if he’d had a sword right now, it would only do him more damage than good – and surround by people who did not like him or his family one bit, due to reasons Maxie himself was not to blame. Not that anyone would care. He knew that it would be far easier just to do what he was told, but Maxie had never been a man to follow orders. His pride had always been the only sin he could be held responsible for. And now, after Groudon, now, that he had lost anything else – his authority, his dreams and goals, his dignity –, his pride was the only thing left to him.   
“You heard me.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest and smiled coldly, looking the pirate in the eyes. “We didn’t ask to be here. We want to go back to where we belong. We have nothing to do with your shenanigans and at least _I_ refuse to even take one step further to Mossdeep. Your _request_ to play charades is a ridiculous thing. And now you should make sure to get rid of us, to get us back home. It is, after all, in your best interests as well, isn’t it?”

“Maxie,” Archie starts quietly, worriedly, and Alistair holds up a hand to silence him. When Maxie caught his eye, he saw the worry in Archie’s gaze that had completely replaced the anger from before, from when they’d been in this cell. Archie was scared. For him. That almost made him laugh, for after all, they had long ago stopped being friends, stopped being worried for each other. At least Archie had. Hadn’t he? But now, he was worried, as if they … still were whatever they had been. However, Maxie knew that everything that Archie had ever felt for him (and that Maxie might still be feeling for _him_ ) had shattered this one day where their ways had parted.

“You come aboard my ship as an intruder -”

“Involuntarily.”

“- as an unwanted _guest_ and now you think you can order me around?”

Maxie scoffed. “You aren’t the only one who can _politely request_ something.”

For a long, long moment, nobody was moving and nothing was happening. There was only the slight breeze tousling Maxie’s hair. And then – faster than Maxie could react, faster than Maxie could even _realize_ it –, Alistair launched into him, a giant, muscular being that moved faster than anyone could have thought possible, could have been possible, and his hand snatched Maxie by the collar. He pulled Maxie towards him, pulled him upwards so that they were face-to-face, and Maxie had to stand on his toes in order not to dangle in his grip like a ragdoll.

His own hands were curling around Alistair’s wrist, and he stared at him with wide, frightened eyes, stared into the scarred face with the cold and agitated eyes.

“You won’t get far with that kind of attitude, _Lord Abernathy_ ,” Alistair growled, face only inches apart from Maxie’s. “You might quickly lose an eye or two like that.” There was a flash of silver in his hand, a dagger, a sharp thing which’s blade gleamed in the sunlight. As if to follow trough with his threat, he swung it closer to his face – and Maxie screamed and quickly shut his eyes so that he didn’t have to look at the blade connecting with his skin. From the distance, he could hear Archie yell as well – “Stop!” and “Don’t!” – and tried to ready himself for the pain he didn’t deserve. His body tensed up, a whimper came over his lips and -

\- there was no pain.

There was only the sound of clothes tearing. There was the cold and chilly air on his skin. Alistair shoved him away, and he stumbled, tripped over his own feet only to land on his arse. The glasses slid off his nose and landed on the floor with a quiet clinking sound, just like something else, something that fell out of the pocket of his coat. Maxie let a hand slide over his chest to check if there really were no injuries or cuts (that he might not notice right now due to his shock). Nothing … at least he wasn’t hurt. At all. Only his clothes were torn, vest and sweater sliced open, hanging uselessly from his body, and he … he felt disgustingly ashamed at his own reaction as he looked up to the smirking bastard in front of him.  
With shaking fingers he was reaching for his glasses, but Alistair kicked them out of his reach, and Maxie bared his teeth, his breathing shallow and quick as his blurred gaze scurried into the direction where he assumed his glasses were. “What the hell,” he started, voice shaking, “do you think you are-”

“Shut up and listen!” Alistair towered over him, the grin still on his lips, but this time, there was no mockery in it, no joke, only pure and utter danger. He reminded Maxie of a wild animal that was just seconds away from ripping his throat open. “You’re trying to undermine my authority, Abernathy. But you can forget that, do you understand? If you don’t want me to throw you overboard and feed you to the fishes, you better – what is _that_?” The expression in his eyes changed, anger became confusion, and finally he bent down to pick up a small, round object, that Maxie – to his horror – recognized as a Poké Ball.

“No,” he protested silently and staggered to his feet again. “Don’t touch that!”

“Hmm?” Alistair raised a brow and shot him a grin, turning the ball around in his hand provocatively, then flinched when his thumb brushed over the little button that enlarged the ball, made it almost as tall as his own fist. He raised his other brow as well. “Don’t tell me that thing is important to you?”

“Give it back!” He stepped forward, reaching out to him demandingly. The Vaporeon roamed around his legs and hissed at him, before climbing onto Alistair’s shoulders, trying to touch the ball with a paw.

“No. Not at all. If that thing’s so important to you, I’ll better keep it until you learned some manners.”

The thought alone made Maxie feel ill. No. Not his Camerupt. He wouldn’t allow Alistair to keep his companion, wouldn’t allow being separated from it. “Give it back right now!” he demanded once more, hotly, and when Alistair only laughed at him he let the anger he’d started to feel as soon as he had come on deck, as soon as he’d been subjected to the spiteful looks and degrading commentary, consume him wholly. He bared his teeth and lunged forward, ready to strike and beat Alistair up and maybe get beaten up and maybe get hurt, but that didn’t matter, it didn’t matter at all, not when he could make sure that Camerupt was safe again, was freed out of Alistair’s filthy hands.

“Maxie, stop it!”

Archie was there. Archie was with him, was next to him, gripping his wrist painfully, unyieldingly hard, hold him back. Maxie writhed in the grip, trying to get free. “Let go of me at once!” he growled, eyes still fixated onto Alistair.

“Maxie, _stop that_. Don’t behave like a fucking idiot!”

“ _Idiot?_ ” Maxie narrowed his eyes and turned his head around to face Archie. “Whose side are _you_ on, anyway?”

“I’m not siding with anyone here. I’m just trying to prevent - ”

Archie was interrupted by a sound that made Maxie’s heart skip a beat, that gave him goosebumps and threatened to tear a scream out of his throat: the sound of a solid object landing in water with an almost inaudible splash. Maxie’s head whipped around and he looked Alistair up and down with a look that started out spiteful and turned into one full of panic when he realized that Alistair’s hand was empty. The Poké Ball was gone.

“No,” he whispered silently, disbelievingly, only marginally noticing that Archie let go of his wrists. He turned on his heels (“Oops,” he heard Alistair say behind him. “I hope it can swim.”) and rushed towards the railing. Something crunched under his boots, shattering, but he paid it no mind, clawed his fingers in the dark wood of the railing and bent over it, searching the water surface with narrowed eyes.

Nothing.

There was nothing.

This couldn’t be. A Poké Ball was so light that it would be able to swim, that he should be able to see it. Unless … Maxie recoiled, feeling bile rise up in his throat. Unless it somehow opened during the impact?   
In front of his mind’s eye, he already saw his Camerupt, saw it struggle, trying in vain not to keep afloat. Camerupt couldn’t swim. Of course it couldn’t, it   
was too heavy with too much fur that could get soaked full with water, _would_ get soaked full. He saw his Camerupt twitch in the last struggles of trying not to drown, saw it go under in the deepest depths of the ocean. Alone. Lonely. Without him. Because he wasn’t there, he hadn’t looked out for it quickly enough, hadn’t reacted quickly enough.

It was … his fault …

He hurried to grab the thick ropes of the rigging, climbed it hastily in the (useless, so useless) attempt to save his loyal companion, in the attempt to jump into the water (too late, far too late) and dive towards it.

He yelped when strong arms wrapped around his chest, pulling him back on deck. “Max, stop it! Don’t do that!”

Archie. Of course it was Archie, it _always_ was Archie, always bringing down everything that Maxie had created, always tearing down his plans, always _betraying_ him. Hadn’t he just yelled at it hours ago? Looked at him with spite and hate in his eyes? “Let me go!” he yelled, loudly, hysterically, and struggled against the grip, but the more he tried to escape, the more Archie held on to him. Maxie felt himself go frantic at the thought of Archie allying with Alistair. Allies! Fighting against him! He should have known, should have foreseen it. Once a traitor, always a traitor!

“Max, it’s fine. Everything’s fine. Camerupt is all right.”

Nonsense! Lies! It wasn’t possible, after all he had seen it with his own two eyes, he … heard the laughter. Loud, many-voiced and nasty. Maxie froze in his movement and slowly turned his head, looking over his shoulder, past Archie and towards Alistair, who held in his hands – without knowing, without realizing – the life and well-being of Maxie’s Camerupt. He didn’t know what they’d thrown into the water- a stone, a coin . And he didn’t particularly care. The only important thing was that Camerupt was safe. Ad safe as it could be, when it wasn’t with him, wasn’t at his side but still caught in the hands of his enemy (and after this stunt, Alistair was nothing else but an enemy, that much was clear to him), when he could not protect it the way it always protected him.

Still, his shoulders slumped and he went boneless in Archie’s grip, against his chest, felt the colour drain from his face in relief, felt the warmth and the strong arms that were still holding him upright so that he wouldn’t fall to his knees in front of these awful people one more time.   
But now, now that he knew his Camerupt was safe, the anger returned, even more forceful than before, making his breath hitch in his throat, making him grind his teeth audibly. He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe, to unclench his fingers that he had balled into fists. “Let me go,” he said calmly and felt Archie shake his head, felt Archie’s bearded cheek against his own, tickling his ear.

“Don’t make it worse than it already is, Maxie,” he whispered. “Don’t fuss. That won’t help any of us.”

“Not against you and your new friend, is that what you’re saying?”

Archie simply ignored him. Instead, he said loudly: “Let’s just go. Below deck. And get changed.”

“I’m not going anywhere without my Pokémon!” And … and his glasses. Where had they … He craned his neck and squinted around, trying to make out the familiar sight of the glasses in the midst of this blurry mess in front of his eyes. Something reflected the sunlight and caught his eyes. Oh. There they were. Just in front of him. Broken and shattered into thousands of pieces. He grimaced and remembered the sound of glass breaking under his boots.

“You aren’t in the position to order people around, Maxie,” Archie hissed in his ear. “Will you just _behave_ this once for Arceus’ sake? Limitation of damage, ever heard of that?”

And with this, he dug his nails into Maxie’s shoulder, letting his other hand rest between Maxie’s shoulder blades to shove him forward, however much Maxie showed himself to be unwilling, however much he ground his own nails into his palms to repress the anger and the urge to fight and hurt them all. His left eye was twitching. He pressed his lips together. Archie was _right_. He was right, dammit, and that just made Maxie more furious. Still, he did not resist any further, only held his head high, for even though he had been demeaned and degraded, he was still _better_ than all of them would ever be.

And he would get his revenge somehow, he thought, as he was being led past them all by Archie. He would avenge himself, for he couldn’t count on his former friend anymore. Maxie scoffed under his breath. He was an unforgiving man, and he was not used to people defying him, which made him even more unforgiving. However, he knew when he was defeated, when he had no chance to win. And maybe, only maybe, underneath all the hate and anger, he was scared. After all, he’d been torn out of his life, his world and time, and he was _here_ , surrounded by people who wished him harm, half-blind and defenseless. He closed his eyes and cursed this whole day, this whole situation and himself, cursed his curiosity. And Archie. Archie, who’d been the one to make them both stumble head-first into this so-called adventure by boarding the ghost ship. He wanted to say that _everything_ was Archie’s fault, but he knew better, knew that he’d been the one to make all these mistakes. Not just with Groudon, even before. Maybe even today? Had he been too careless? Should he have stopped Archie in his tracks, stop him from searching for the clues of his ancestry while clinging to his own family tree himself? Maybe. Should he have stopped him from searching for the ship? Definitely. Should he have reacted more quickly when he’d seen the fissure in the sky, the crack in time and space that had swallowed them both? Abso- no … that one wasn’t his fault. Nobody could have been this quick to escape this outcome. They would have stumbled into the past either way.

Actually, they were maybe lucky to be stranded here and not on some kind of isolated island – or worse, in the middle of the ocean, hundreds of miles under the surface, where they’d had no means to survive, where they’d had drowned painfully. The thought made him shiver and he grimaced once more. It could have been worse, but it wasn’t _good_ , either. They’d have to stick together now. Take care of each other. Make sure that they could go home again – together. They had argued, they had fallen out of their friendship, but even now, Archie had tried to help. … hadn’t he? Had tried to help and had actually helped him. Yes. And now it was time to go home for good, somehow.

“Not so fast!”

Archie abruptly came to a halt, and since he was still holding onto Maxie, Maxie had no choice but stopping as well. He turned his head to the side and tensed up as their – his – only real problem walked up to them.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Alistair asked, putting one hand to his hip, while still holding the Poké Ball in his other one.

Maxie forced himself to stay calm when Archie simply and factually explained that they were simply going to do what they were told to. “Now that we’re done with the introductions,” Archie said, and Maxie pressed his lips together during the whole conversation, due to the way that Archie _played down_ the abuse that Maxie had just suffered, the things that this filthy and disgusting -

“I don’t remember giving the permission. Not after _his Lordship_ behaved like a spoiled child.”

“I can’t remember having to accept _your_ orders!” Maxie growled before he was able to hold himself back, and he detached himself from Archie’s grip and held out his right hand requestingly. “And now give me the Poké Ball!”

The smile that Alistair shot him was thin-lipped, a grimace, a simple baring of his teeth, and then he bent down to Maxie’s ear and said: “You’ll do it right here and now.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Undress,” he only said and smiled at Maxie’s distressed expression. “You know, the obligatory blabla of a threat: You’ll do as I say. If you want this thing back. And if you want to survive. And so on.”

“Alistair,” Archie stated calmly. “This is really not -”

“Shut up. My ship, my rules, my authority.” He smiled once more, spreading his arms wide. “What’re you waiting for, _Milord_? We all wanna know if you have the same bony ass as your relative.”

It was silent for a second or two. Then, he heard the chorus of laughter. Of jubilation. Of the cheers because they found their captain’s idea to be absolutely wonderful. Maxie could see Salacia standing a few steps behind Alistair, frowning, arms crossed in front of her chest, but he couldn’t make out the expression on her face. Was it pity? Anger? If the latter – who was she angry about? Him, because he hadn’t immediately done what he’d been told, or about Alistair, whose behavior was unforgivable in Maxie’s eyes – and maybe in hers as well. However, she didn’t try to stand up for him.   
Moments passed and the cheers grew louder, more impatient, and Maxie felt his heart beat faster, felt his blood creep onto his cheeks in an embarrassing flush.

And above all, there was the sword of Damocles, the unveiled threats he had received.

And then, there was Archie. Archie, who gently laid a hand on his shoulder and said his name.

_It’s good of you to try to help me_ , thought Maxie, who didn’t look away from the blue, blue eyes of that one man, those eyes with the storm inside them, the storm that might determine Maxie’s fate. _But I fear you cannot help me with this. I -  
_

“You should do what he says.”

_What?!_

He flinched and bit down on his lower lip, felt bile rise in his throat once more. It felt as if Archie had pulled the rug from under him, as if he was falling deeper and deeper into a bottomless pit.  
And then he finally understood that his thoughts from before had been right: Once a traitor, always a traitor. Archie had left him all these years ago, why should he have come back to aid him now? No, Maxie was sure that all of this, all of the alleged help, the pretended tries to be at his side, had been carefully planned. Most likely Archie had told him about the Poké Ball, about his companionship to his Camerupt. Most likely they’d laughed their filthy arses off while initiating their little plan.

He shook off Archie’s hand and took a step forward, raising his chin upwards arrogantly. And then, he let the coat slide from his shoulders, together with the remains of his vest and sweater, all the while still looking Alistair in the eyes. He saw the wide grin as his clothes landed on the ground with a quiet thud. Ignoring the first faint applause and the crowd cheering him on, he opened his belt and pants, kicked the boots off his feet and let pants and leggings alike pool at his feet, only clad in plain black boxer shorts now.  
Then … then he actually hesitated before laying a hand onto the waistband of his shorts.

“That’s enough,” he heard Alistair say – and, surprisingly, Archie as well.

… but was it really enough? Was this the end of the humiliation? Truly and really?

“I’m feeling gracious today.” The wide grin again, this time more titillating, intimately. A sight that made Maxie curls his fingers into fists. “You may keep your underwear on.”

“Good,” he drawled. “Otherwise you might become jealous of my assets.”

Alistair blinked once, twice, regarded him with raised brows, and then started to laugh. Loudly and heartily. “Don’t challenge me, Abernathy, or you’ll spend the rest of our journey naked.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Behind him, Archie was saying his name, a quiet warning, but he ignored him and reached his hand out once more. “And now give me what’s mine or I’ll forget my good upbringing.”

Alistair laughed again, leaving him in uncertainty for one long moment, two long breaths, in which Maxie feared that he had really gone too far – and then, he threw the ball at him, and Maxie caught it hastily, closing his fingers around it tightly and relieved.

“That wasn’t too hard, now, was it?” he asked and snapped his fingers. Immediately, the man who was not Matt drew closer. “Take them below deck and make sure our _friends_ behave.”

Before anyone could stop him, before he could stop himself, Maxie lunged forward once more, hand balled into a fist, and even though Archie was yelling his name, he only heard the echo of the laughter in his ears, in his mind, only saw the stupid, wide grin in front of his mind’s eye, felt the memory of the cruel panic that had taken hold of him.

And then, he struck Alistair hard. Hit him directly in the face. He had actually targeted his nose, because a nose could break, and that would hurt days and weeks, would hurt just as much as what Alistair had done to Maxie. Tough, despite his surprise, Alistair had managed to turn his head away a little, so that the punch was not hitting his nose, but his cheekbone, the spot just below his left eye.

The impact hurt him as well, and he grit his teeth at the feeling of bone connecting with bone. Alistair gave pained moan, and Maxie struggled not to let out a sound. When he drew back his hand, he was already expecting someone to attack him, to punish him for daring to touch the oh-so-holy captain, but Alistair only rubbed his cheek, looking surprised and almost fond. Maxie scoffed and glared at him. Loudly, loud enough for them all to hear, he said: “If you ever touch my property again, I will burn your little boat down.”

And then, he bent over to retrieve his belt, fingers brushing over the Poké Balls that were attached to it – one, two, three; at least those were safe –, before making his way downstairs with as much dignity as somebody who was only wearing boxer shorts could demonstrate.

-

The man who was not Matt pointed at one large chest in the cargo area. “There,” he said. “This is where we keep our disguises.”

Maxie shivered in the cold and hurried to open the chest with a creaking sound, gritting his teeth as he lifted the heavy lid. With a sigh, he looked at all the different kinds of clothes that were stored in there and wondered for what the pirates could need them. But then, the man had said these were disguises, so there surely were moments where a pirate did not want to be recognized. He rummaged through the pile of clothing, grimacing at the fabrics – the colours and the sizes and who had said that this was a good idea?

“Was this really necessary?” he heard Archie say as the man came to a stop next to him.

“Why are you asking _me_ this? Why didn’t you ask your beloved ancestor if it was necessary to humiliate me?”

“Let’s be honest, Max, you didn’t exactly show your best behaviour.”

He turned on his heels, glaring at him. “ _My_ best behaviour? What about you? Why didn’t you stand up for me?”

Archie looked at him with his brows raised. “You might not have noticed, but I saved your ass out there.”

“No, you crawled up _his_ ass. If you haven’t noticed it,” he hissed.

“Look,” Archie said with a sigh and unzipped his wetsuit – and Maxie quickly turned away from him –, coming to stand next to him. “He was right. He is the captain on this ship. You wouldn’t want one of your grunts to misbehave, either.”

“Don’t you _dare_ compare me and my grunts to this man! And whose side are you on, anyway?”

Archie was silent for a long, long while, rummaging through the pile of clothing and pulling out dark blue pants and an equally-coloured shirt. “I’m on no-one’s side.”

“Not on _mine_ , you mean.”

Archie turned his head and glared at him. “Stop it, Max! It’s enough! If you’ve forgotten already, I am your only friend here, don’t provoke me into abandoning you as well!”

Abandon … Maxie felt his blood boil, felt the anger return. “Are you threatening me?” he asked loudly, clenching his fists as Archie hastily got changed.

“Y'know,” Archie said with another sigh. “For a smartass, you can be fucking stupid sometimes.”

And with that, he left him all alone. Again.

… maybe he should get used to it. To be abandoned. Again. Betrayed. Once more.

Maxie gave a sigh and forced himself not to look into the direction Archie had gone. Forced himself to simply yank some of the fabric out of the chest and over his head (a shirt of an undefinable colour) and step into a pair of pants (a dark forest green). Both were too large for him, and he used first his belt and then a dark red sash to keep the pants from slipping off his hips. He stored his Camerupt safely into the pocket of his pants.

Another sigh.

He did his best not to look at the man who was Matt and wasn’t Matt at once, for he was worried to see … well … pity in his eyes. He could deal with hatred and mockery, but not with pity.

And he felt the anger return, felt it bubble inside him, white and red and hot, and he was by another feeling joining it; the terrifying feeling of helplessness, the resignation about this whole situation. He was here. He wasn’t able to leave (unless he maybe managed to get to Mossdeep and find the only person he could expect help from). He had to live with being surrounded by people who hated him. And he had to live with Archie. Archie, whose loyalty he had lost years ago already, for Archie had proven to be only loyal to himself. And now to this awful man as well.

…what did Archie even think? Who did he think gave him the right to behave this way? Who did _Alistair_ think he was, having the right to treat him like this?

He slammed the lid of the chest shut with a bang, the sound of wood meeting wood being loud enough to conceal his growls.

“Hey,” a deep voice behind him said, and Maxie flinched.

“What?” he asked sharply, turned into the direction where the voice had come from, ready to tear everybody apart, ready to fight. He would never be humiliated again, attacked again, he told himself – only to not feel very brave only mere seconds later, as he found himself face-to-face with the man who wasn’t Matt (though, to be exact, it wasn’t _exactly_ like they were face-to-face, for Maxie was more than just a few inches shorter). “… what?” he asked again, this time far less aggressive.

“You need something else.” Before Maxie could ask what he was talking about, the man walked over to another chest. One, on which a Surskit was sleeping on (the man poked it with a large index finger, and the tiny thing opened his eyes, fluffing itself up and grumbling,obviously annoyed at being woken up). The man simply curled a hand around it and sat it on his shoulder, where it promptly fell asleep again, then searched though another pile of clothes, throwing a pair of knee-high boots at Maxie. And also … also a pair of fabric that he held out to Maxie, ho identified it as some kind of bandanna. A blue one. With white polka dots.

“What the hell do you want me to do with that?”

“It’s for your own safety.”

“… what?”

Not-Matt smiled (and Maxie shuddered at the sight of his tattooed lips parting, the pattern widening a little, making him appear even more eerie). ”Many people like us don’t think too highly of your family. It’s safer for you to hide where you’re coming from. In Mossdeep.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Red hair in the striking distance of pirates – that aren’t us – is a death sentence.”

“No. That I do understand. I don’t understand why you care.”

“Hm,” was all he got for an answer. And nothing else. For a moment. Then, however: “Why did you call me Matt?”

Maxie blinked in confusion. Had he? Well, yes. He must have. He had. It felt like that had been an eternity ago. “You … in our time … at home … ” This one word that hurt so much, that pierced his heart like a stab with a knife. He swallowed hard, needing a second to get himself together again. “There is someone like you. He looks a lot like you. His name is Matt and he belongs to Archie’s crew. They are best friends. I … I thought you to be him. And I assume you and Alistair are friends as well.”

Silence. The massive arms crossed in front of an equally massive chest. “Similar. The Captain is not my friend.”

_That does not surprise me. Who could be friends with that man?_

“He is like a brother to me.”

“Ah. Oh. How nice. For you. Well,you know the saying. You cannot choose your family.”

A heavy hand lay down on his shoulder, squeezing it surprisingly gently. “If only you knew how right you are,” he said. “And now come. We have no time to waste.” He took a few steps, and then turned to Maxie. “By the way, the name is Mateo.”

Maxie was silent as he followed Mateo back on deck, thinking about this remark, about this strange look in his eyes. Thinking about what had happened between his family and Alistair’s crew. That there existed some kind of animosity, that much was clear. It was obvious. Otherwise, Alistair wouldn’t hate him this much. Otherwise, Alistair wouldn’t …

He actually didn’t want to think the word, because it reminded him of the being on board of the ghost ship, the man who was forced to wear the noose around his neck for all eternity. It reminded him of the dried blood on his face. Of the tales of the burning city.

… but then, Alistair was a pirate. He had known from the beginning that his life might end someday, that he might be caught and brought to justice for the crimes he had committed.

But still … Did anybody actually _deserve_ to die?

Maxie pondered this question for a moment, thought about what people would have said about him, would have wished upon him if they ever were to find out that he’d been the one to release Groudon. And he thought about what they’d have said if Groudon had actually managed to ravage without mercy. He would have been hated. Just like he hated Alistair. Even thought there was a difference, even though he had simply had the best intentions, had not known what Groudon could do, and Alistair, contrary to him, had been a giant asshole on purpose.

Well, anyway. There was a difference. Still, nobody deserved death. And however much Maxie was reluctant to even change a single thing in this time and space, in their shared past, he still did not want to be the one who could be blamed for anybody’s death.

Maybe he should give Alistair a warning. If Archie hadn’t already done that.

Apropos … Alistair and the unofficial leader of his fan club stood a little further away from the rest of the commotion, together with Salacia, still arguing about the pros and cons of going to Mossdeep (while Alistair’s arguments seemed to boil down to 'I’m your captain and you will do as I say!’, hers were more along the lines of 'You will kill us all, you giant dumbass!’, and Maxie really thought her to have the smarter attitude about this matter), until Archie finally interrupted the discussion by asking: “What’s the big deal, anyway? Why’s Mossdeep so dangerous?”, and in Maxie’s opinion, those were the first smart words he’d said since they had arrived.

Salacia groaned. “Don’t. Don’t ask.”

Alistair grinned broadly. “He did ask.”

“He didn’t know any better.”

“But he did ask!”

While Salacia proved herself to be quite capable in the fine art of face-palming, Alistair brought his hands together, clapping once, twice until he had his crew’s complete attention- “Gather around, children. Our newest crew member wants to hear our history with Mossdeep. It’s story time!”

“Yeah!” someone shouted. “Tell us the story of how you screwed the magistrate!” There were cheers and laughter and somebody else added: “But not the kind of screwing he would have wanted!”, and Maxie felt like throttling them all.

Alistair sat down right were he was, legs stretched out, back resting against the door to his cabin. “Sit,” he said to Archie. “It will take a while.” And when Archie did, the rest of the crew relaxed as well, slouching atop barrels and heaps of rope. Only Maxie was left standing, feeling out of place. Alistair looked at him and chuckled. “You … yeah, I guess you can stay, too. Sit down, Your Highness.”

Maxie scoffed and crossed his arms in front of his chest. He stayed exactly where he was, but leant his back against the railing.

Alistair rolled his eyes, still grinning, and waved his hand dismissively. “Well, whatever. The story. The origin of Mossdeep’s danger. The tale of -”

“Oh, just get on with it,” Salacia told him loudly.

Alistair mockingly bowed, which looked ridiculous if one were to consider that he was still sitting. “Milady. Anyway, our story begins not in Mossdeep itself, but in Lilycove. It was a dark and stormy night, and -”

“Strange,” Mateo interrupted. “I thought it was a sunny afternoon.”

“Wasn’t it just after sunset the last time you told this tale?” someone else asked, someone next to Maxie, and when Maxie turned his head a little, he saw a bald man with piercing eyes that looked somehow familiar, but he did not know why.

“My story, my rules,” Alistair exclaimed. “So it was dark and stormy. We had just pulled another heist and now everyone was off-duty. I remember some of you visiting your families, bringing home your share of the loot. I, as your beloved captain, was already trying to find us some new target, which is why I was going to wait for a contact man in the 'Seashell’, the most infamous bar in all of the city.”

The more Alistair talked, the more Maxie felt immersed in the tale, felt as if he were there, not as a bystander, but in Alistair’s place.

-

He managed to push his way through the crowd, for it was one of those evenings where the whole of Lilycove’s resident scum had gathered. One of those evenings where the place smelled of tobacco and beer and all other kinds of beverages. Of the fire in the fireplace and freshly cooked meat. The sweat of dozens of men hung in the air, a strange and yet familiar mixture of seawater and musk, and Alistair fought his way to the crowded counter to get a jug of rum. Someone seemed to recognize him, for somehow he managed to acquire a seat at one of the far-off tables, those that were hidden in the dim light, that were opposite the entrance so that he could watch whomever entered the bar.

He had not arranged any kind of meeting with the contact man, but he knew the guy was always here, whenever he could. So he waited and drank and waited some more, and one jug of rum turned into two and three.

And then, suddenly, there was somebody looming over him, casting a shadow on him and his drink. Alistair blinked in confusion, raising his gaze … and chuckled. “I didn’t know they let kids in here.”

The boy in front of him – and it really was nothing more than a boy, one that was sixteen, seventeen at most – smiled widely, almost amused at him. “Are you Alistair McNaughton?” he asked, and this was the moment Alistair actually looked him up and down. He was dressed in expensive clothes, browns and blacks, wearing a heavy coat. Alistair could only see one half of his face, the other one obscured by long blond bangs, and the one visible purple eye seemed … strangely cold. Almost derived of life.

“Who wants to know?”

“My master wishes to propose a deal to you. One small favour in exchange for wealth and riches.”

He laughed into his drink, taking another sip. “And who would your master be?”

The boy sat down unbidden and leaned forwards, looking him in the eyes. “Lord Magnus Abernathy of Mossdeep.”

Alistair froze. Then, after a long second, he shrugged and told the boy to get lost. “There are some devils even I wouldn’t strike a deal with.”

Magnus Abernathy was infamous for hunting pirates. For targeting every ship in the close proximity of his island. Nobody knew how he did it, but whenever a pirate dared to come close to Mossdeep, he would find out. And he would kill them without mercy. Men and women and children. Over a hundred of them in not even two years that had lost their lives at the gallows.

People said he knew his way around with witchcraft. There was no other way for them to explain his success in hunting the likes of Alistair.

The boy seem disappointed, confused, as if he couldn’t understand why someone would not want to work for Abernathy. It only showed how young he was. How little he knew. “I see,” he said. “Then … then I apologize for stealing your time.”

“It’s fine. It was worth a good laugh.”

“Can I … would you be so kind to tell me more of you? I have searched for you because my master asked me to, but I have gotten interested in you as well. In what a pirate is.”

“Want to switch over to the good side?” When the boy was silent and lowered his gaze, fidgeting with his gloves – and only now Alistair noticed the gloves, black and made out of fine leather. It made him wonder what services the boy provided for Abernathy to pamper him like this. “Well, fine. I’ll tell you some anecdotes. But only if you bring me something to drink.”

The visible purple eye lit up in excitement and the boy nodded, raising to his feet, almost tripping over them in the hurry to get to the counter. Alistair watched him for a moment and then turned his attention back to the door in the hopes his contact man would finally come. It didn’t seem that way, though, and so he feared he had wasted his time.

Some minutes later, the boy returned, a jug in his hand. He carefully placed it in front of Alistair, who took one large sip, nodding to himself. “Good. What do you want to hear?”

“Everything.”

So, well. Everything it was. He talked, shared a few stories, and emptied the jug. The alcohol got to him quicker than he was used to – he felt dizzy and tired, but he blamed it on the heat and the crowd and the noise and ignored it for a while. Finally, when he couldn’t suppress a yawn he said: “Well, that’s it for today. I will get going.”

“Can I accompany you for a bit?”

Alistair only nodded, not trusting his tongue. He didn’t want to slur his words already. Slowly, carefully, he got up and, together with the young man, the boy, the creepy boy with the creepy smile that never reached that visible eye, he left the bar.

The fresh air normally made him feel better after having drunk too much. On this fay, though, it made him feel even dizzier, and he felt himself stumble, bracing himself against the wall. He felt strange. Tired. Not the usually way whenever he had drunk a lot, but … differently tired. In a way he couldn’t describe. Confused, he looked at the boy and flinched at the wide and toothy grin he sported on his lips.

It was the last he saw before everything went black.

And as he fell to the ground, hitting his head hard on the cobblestone, he heard laughter and the sounds of heavy boots coming closer. Then, there was only nothingness.

-  
He awoke in a place that smelled like water and ashes alike, and he did not dare to open his eyes, for there were strange and unknown voices talking, for he felt himself being chained to a wall. He was sitting upright with his hands behind his back against this very wall, the cold seeping through his shirt, his hands bound behind his back by iron shackles.

“Are you certain this is him?” somebody asked, a hushed whisper, like velvet on his skin. “He looks younger than I had thought.”

“So? I _am_ younger than most people think, and you know this is not a disadvantage. Why should it be different with him?”

“You are right. My apologies. When do you assume he will wake up?”

“If my calculations are correct,” the younger man said, and now Alistair recognized the damn boy, “which we both know they are, then the effects of the sleeping powder should have worn off already. I guess he’s listening to what we say, pretending to be still asleep.”

Oh. We. So much for the element of surprise. With a sigh Alistair opened his eyes to look at his captors and flinched when he recognized the magistrate of Mossdeep with his crimson eyes and scrutinizing gaze, and he remembered the old rumor that Abernathy’s eyes had turned red due to him being submerged in the blood of his 'enemies’, the blood he had shed, the blood of all the men he had hurt and killed and watched bleed out.

“McNaughton”, he said with a court nod. “How nice of you to heed my call.”

“You didn’t exactly ask me too nicely.”

“You know who I am. I do not need to ask.” He straightened his shoulders, folding his hands behind his back. “And I know who you are. Alistair McNaughton, wanted for piracy and various other crimes, all punishable with the death sentence.” Abernathy let his fingers slide into the breast-pocket of his waistcoat, producing first a pair of dark-rimmed reading glasses and then a slip of paper. He cleared his throat and, with a few glances back at Alistair’s face, began to read the list to him.

Alistair didn’t listen too much. He knew all of his crimes. He relished in them. He was proud of what he had accomplished. And so, when Abernathy finished reading and shot him a judging look, asking what he had to say about this, he only shrugged and grinned. “I am a man of many talents.”

“You are a  man who might not see the light of day anymore. I advise you to take this situation more seriously.”

“If you’d wanted to hang me, you’d have already done so.”

Abernathy smiled. “What a smart pirate. It is true, though, I have other things in mind with you.” He snapped his fingers. “Mr. Briar.”

Alistair knew this was not a situation to laugh about, but he couldn’t hold the laughter back anyway, couldn’t help but chuckle. “Mr.? That child is no more a Mr. than I am a noble!”

“I am not a child!” the boy whined and glared at him with a pout on his lips. “I am sixteen and if you ever insult me again, I will -”

“ _Mr. Briar_ ,” Abernathy repeated sharply. “Be so kind and fetch my Houndoom. And the branding iron.”

Alistair flinched at that and Briar grinned at him nastily. Only a few moments later he returned with the growling beast.

“Hold him still,” Abernathy ordered, and Alistair tried to shake the prying fingers off that ripped his shirt open to expose his collarbones and chest, but however much he struggled, he could not prevent that these surprisingly strong hands gripped his flesh and kept him from moving. Then, Abernathy snapped his fingers once more and the Houndoom – a well-trained thing, really, very well-behaved – growled, a flame alighting the dim dungeon cell. Abernathy used it to heat up the branding iron, the tip of it, the thing that was shaped like the letter 'P’, the death sentence for every pirate who had to bear this mark, for it made them be considered outlawed, free to be harmed and killed by all those oh so law-abiding citizens.

Alistair struggled even more, but he could not keep Abernathy away, could not keep the branding iron away from his skin. The heated tip met his skin and bone, and pain shot through him like a lightning bolt, and he screamed and _screamed_ , and he must have lost consciousness for a while, because when he came back to his senses, the branding iron was gone and only the throbbing pain in his body and the smell of burnt flesh verified what had happened. He whimpered sightly, voice raw and throat aching.

“This will assure you don’t run away tonight,” Abernathy said coldly and smiled at him like a trainer smiled at his loyal Pokémon. “After all, I have a trade to talk to you about.”

“Talking normally doesn’t include torture,” he said weakly.

“But where would be the fun in that?”

Alistair’s back slumped against the wall and he screwed his eyes shut, focused on breathing in and out, breathing the pain away.

“Mr. Briar will accompany you to the guest bedroom where you can change your clothes. This _stink_ will not do. Not in my house.” Abernathy grinned, and Alistair growled. Whose fault was it that he smelled like ashes and fire and burnt flesh, after all? He grit his teeth in disgust, in hatred and … yes, even in a little shame.

Briar unlocked the shackles that had bound him to the wall and yanked him to his feet, leading him out of the dungeons – thought, actually, it was less 'leading’ and more 'shoving’, bit Alistair was too weak to resist. He was led up two sets of stairs and into a room, where he could make out a comfortable-looking bed, a wardrobe and a writing desk with a chair in front of it. And in the middle of the room, there was a wooden tub, already filled with hot water.

“You planned that all along,” he rasped accusingly, and Briar only chuckled.

“My master thinks of everything. There are towels and clothes in the wardrobe. You will need them.”

Alistair didn’t look at him. He was curling his fingers into the wooden rim of the tub and his knuckles turned white, and however much his legs wanted to give in, he forced himself to stand upright until Briar had left the room, locking the door behind him. Only then, he allowed himself to strip down with shaking fingers. Only then, he slipped into the water, closing his eyes and forcing himself to think despite the pain.

He had to get out of here. He had to run. He didn’t feel like he would get very far.

For a long, long while, he did not do anything at all, he simply stayed there in the water to wash away the pain and shame and disgust, until it was no longer hot (but not as hot as the burning iron, never as hot as the pain), but still warm and as enjoyable as anything could be _enjoyable_ in this situation; a situation where he was imprisoned, locked up, hurt and tortured. Finally, he raised a hand to the wound, tracing the outlines of the letter that would sea his fate and send him to the gallows if anyone were to see it. He ground his teeth and cursed under his breath at his own stupidity. He’d been so stupid, so incredibly _stupid_!

The sound of a key being turned in the lock made him look up, and he watched Abernathy enter the room, carrying a tray with a crystalline carafe and two glasses, a red liquid in them. Alistair glared at him and drew his knees close to his chest.

“We will talk, I guess,” Abernathy said, putting the tray down on the desk.

“Without me getting dressed first.”

“I enjoy the view, to be frank,” Abernathy exclaimed unashamedly and smiled at Alistair’s glare. “And I like putting myself in a position of power.”

“I have noticed,” he muttered darkly as Abernathy drew the chair close to the tub.

“I will apologize for how my subordinate behaved. And I will have you known that I would not have hurt you if you had cooperated.”

“Of course not.”

Abernathy smiled courtly and offered him a glass of what Alistair assumed to be wine (could be blood, though, who knew with that guy), but Alistair shook his head. “Last time someone offered me a drink, I woke up in a torture room.” Abernathy shrugged and took a sip, and finally Alistair said: “Well? Spill the beans. What the hell do you want?”

“We will talk about the details later in my office, because I keep everything I need to show you in order to prepare you to the task in there. But, to make it short, I want you to retrieve something for me.”

“And what?”

“I will explain it soon enough.”

Alistair rolled his eyes. “And what is in there for me?”

“I offer you wealth.”

“I don’t care about your blood money.”

“Power.”

“I have all the power I need.”

“Freedom.”

“I _was_ free until you captured me.”

Abernathy’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You are a pirate. You are never free. You are always on the run from the law and the punishment you deserve for breaking it. But what I offer you is so much more than stolen time and stolen goods.” He put the glass back onto the desk and stood up, circling Alistair – who felt vulnerable, and not only because he was naked, not only because he had nothing to hide behind, but because he had nowhere to run and Abernathy reminded him of his very own Houndoom; a beast of prey that hunted his victims until they had nowhere left to flee, until they were backed up in a corner without any chance of escape – until he stood behind him. Bony hands lay upon his shoulders and Alistair flinched as hot breath ghosted over his wet neck and cheek, tickling the spot right behind his ear. “I offer you absolution. Life as a privateer. Under my flag.”

“Branded as a pirate forever.”

He chuckled. “I think you understand why I had to do this. You are a smart one, I know that muh. This is why I have chosen you. I’ve heard the stories, of course, of this one pirate who favoured brains instead of brawns.” Abernathy’s lips were close to his ear as he whispered. “I made sure my offer would be all the more … exciting to you.” When Alistair shivered and pressed his lips together, Abernathy abruptly stood upright again, chuckling darkly. “After all, I hold your life in my hands. That alone should be enough to make you interested in what I have to say.”

Alistair swallowed audibly, forcing himself to laugh. “The way you behave, you wanna hold other parts of me in your hands, I guess.”

“It would be appreciated. But this is no part of any deal I make. I am not _forcing_ you to do anything, let's not forget that,” he said, all feigned innocence and smiles. “It would be more of a personal pleasure to me. Just like it would be a pleasure to see you succeed in the task I give you, prove the tales they tell about you right. And now get dressed. I will await you in my office to talk about the finer details of this deal.”

He exited the room, silently closing the door behind himself, and Alistair sank deeper into the water, submerging in it completely for a few long seconds with a sigh and the knowledge that he was in very deep trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now back on track with what's on [Tumblr](http://ariodat.tumblr.com/)! (You can shout at me there, always, shh.)
> 
> [Chapter illustration](http://ariodat.tumblr.com/image/133823589891) by Meltingpenguins.  
> [Character Sheet of Hieronymus Briar](http://meltingpenguins.tumblr.com/post/133870159693/mr-briar-from-the-latest-installment-of) by Meltingpenguins.  
> Art of [Alistair](http://41.media.tumblr.com/66e88cc8f423ee92ca2996a7b57a0b26/tumblr_inline_nusivk9kOZ1qinda0_400.png) and[Magnus](http://41.media.tumblr.com/b638400d9a1698e8162ed0e9c0eb2393/tumblr_inline_nustyxCYdP1qinda0_500.png) and [both](http://bouncyenvos.tumblr.com/post/127209963755) by bounyenvos.


End file.
